Al Potter and the Plague of Frogs
by Messej
Summary: Al's first year at Hogwarts is full of amphibians, reptiles and riddles.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_Friday, Sept 1, 2017_

As his father faded from view in the swirling mist of the platform, Al drew away from the window and glanced around the compartment. A few students were heading back to the other side of the train, having only come across to wave good-bye to their parents. One boy settled into a seat not far from the sliding door; Al recognized him as Peter Bones—he had met him a few times before at Ministry functions. But aside from being more acne-spattered than the last time Al had seen him, all he recalled about Peter was that his mother worked with Rose's in the MLE.

The door eased closed, and the only ones left in the compartment were he, Rose, Peter, and a pale, dark-haired girl he had never seen before. She was still at the window, her nose and splayed hands pressed to the glass.

Al sat down, leaving a few spaces between he and Peter, and Rose, with a concerned glance at the girl, took the seat opposite him, across the center aisle. After a moment, she caught Al's eye, and with a smile so wide it threatened to push her ears to the back of her head, began to chant: "_We're_ off to _Hog_-warts… _We're_ off to _Hog_-warts…"

Al grinned back, ignoring the rising anxiety he felt as the train drew further and further away from his parents. Peter laughed, an explosion of excitement and relief.

"Can you believe it?" he said, leaning back in his seat with a whooshing sigh. "I thought August would never end."

Al thought rather differently—for him, one minute he had been unfolding his first list of school supplies over breakfast in the cozy kitchen of the Den, and the next he was stepping onto the Hogwarts Express, wishing he were Lily.

Lily-_livered_, more like, said a quiet voice in his head. He called this voice "James."

As the train rattled around its first bend, the girl at the window seemed to droop. With a deep, audible breath, she turned around.

She had not been crying, as Al had feared—a weepy stranger would make for a long, awkward trip—though her face was white as a sheet. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in two narrow braids, and she was dressed in a black pleated skirt with a dark gray jumper. She crossed the compartment, sat down next to Rose, who seemed a bit startled at the sudden proximity, and commenced an unblinking examination of her own knees.

Looking at her, Al was reminded of a girl in a film he'd once watched at his Muggle relatives' house. His father's cousin Dudley collected film files like Aunt Hermione collected books, and he always ended up seeing at least one whenever they visited the Dursleys during the holidays. The film he remembered now had been a strange American one, with an older look about it, called _The Addams Family_…

"Are you all right?" Rose asked the girl, peering at her curiously.

The girl extended her neck a bit as she swallowed, which Al supposed could pass as a nod. To his side, he sensed Peter bracing himself, and knew that he too half-expected her to burst into tears any second.

Hesitantly, Rose reached out and patted the girl's shoulder. "It's our first time away from home, too," she said.

Looking up, the girl gave them a weak, closed-lipped smile. Rose was staring at the boys expectantly.

"Yeah," said Peter hurriedly, and Al nodded.

"What's your name?" asked Rose.

"Ana," said the girl. "I'm fine, really. Just… nervous."

Rose smiled. "I'm Rose Weasley. This is Peter Bones and Al Potter. If it's nerves you've got, you should talk to that one," she said, tilting her chin at Al. "The Sorting's nearly got him going into fits."

"It has not!" protested Al, as Peter laughed.

"Why the worry?" Peter asked. "Your family's been in Gyffindor for ages!"

"I just… I dunno," said Al, not wishing to explain his anxiety. He had a feeling Peter would not understand.

"Personally, I'm not worried at all," said Rose, in a lofty tone. "I trust the Sorting Hat to make the right decision, and I'll be fine with whatever House it chooses."

Reminded of something his father had said on the platform, Al spoke up, aware of but quite unable to stifle the note of hope as he said, "But it's not just the Sorting Hat that chooses!"

At Rose's apparent confusion, he rushed on. "My dad said that the Hat will listen to what you think as well. So if you really doesn't want to be in Sl—in a certain house, it won't put you there."

"Really?" said Rose, her brow furrowed in doubt.

"Really?" echoed Ana, voice faint, her knees gripped in panic.

"_I've_ never heard of that happening for anyone," said Peter.

"But Dad said—" Al stopped, and suddenly his father's words were not so comforting anymore. Sure, the Hat may have done what Harry Potter wanted, but his father was special, wasn't he? Not that Al had ever really seen his father among anyone but family and friends and coworkers, but he had seen the newspapers. His father's name was always preceded or followed by some impressive-sounding phrase—'savior of the wizarding world' or 'the famous hero' or 'he who revolutionized the Ministry.'

And he wasn't Harry Potter—he was Harry Potter's kid, the one in the middle with the old-person name. He looked at Ana and Rose. "You've never heard of that happening either?"

They shook their heads.

"Oh," said Al, struggling to tamp down the swirls of panic fluttering anew.

Peter had crossed his arms, satisfied, as if he had won an argument. Al wished Peter would go away. Peter, however, turned his attention to Rose.

"Would you really be fine with whatever House it chose?" he asked. "I mean, _any_ House?"

Al knew what Peter was implying, and it seemed so did Rose, who replied, with forced confidence:

"Of course."

Ana was staring at Rose as though she wanted to, but couldn't quite, believe her. Peter appeared outright skeptical.

"Although," Rose continued. "I expect I'll either be in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw."

"I'll bet you do," said Peter, nodding as though he heard exactly what he had anticipated. Rose narrowed her eyes. Ana's were fastened to the floor. "I'm fairly certain it'll be Hufflepuff for me," he went on, with a careless wave of his hand. "What with the legacy and all. Though I'd not say no to Gryffindor. You seem a fun lot."

Peter aimed a grin at Al, who could only just bring his mouth to twitch in reply. Of course Peter assumed Al would go Gryffindor—that he would follow his grandparents, his mother and father, his brother into the House that could do no wrong, the best House at Hogwarts, if his father's stories were anything to go by. Only… _only you don't think you will, do you?_ said his James voice.

Not wanting the others to notice his lack of response, he asked: "What about you, Ana? Where do you think you'll end up?"

Ana looked up at Al with wide eyes, and hunched her shoulders. Al felt a bit guilty—she apparently did not welcome being put on the spot.

"I—um…" she darted a look at Peter, who raised an eyebrow, then at Rose, who nodded encouragingly. "…Slytherin," she said, in a small, miserable voice.

"Oh!" said Rose, in slight surprise. "Are you… very ambitious?"

"I'm not sure," said Ana, twisting her hands in her lap. "But I'm not very brave or loyal or studious, either."

"Hi, are you _evil_?" asked Peter with a laugh. "That'd be a good clue."

"Peter Bones!" exclaimed Rose. Ana looked back down at the floor, biting her lip. "What an awful thing to say!"

"I was only joking!" said Peter. "Obviously she won't be sorted there. I can picture her perfectly in any house _but_ Slytherin—"

"Oh, because you know her so well?" cut in Al, a bit surprised at himself for speaking up, but he felt sorry for Ana. If anything, she had looked even more upset at Peter's implication that she _wasn't_ suited to Slytherin.

Rose seemed to have noticed the same thing. "What's your surname, Ana?" she asked gently.

"Dolohov," said Ana. She glanced around, meeting their looks of recognition with air of resignation.

"Any relation to… Antonin Dolohov?" asked Rose carefully.

Dolohov had been a middle-ranking Death Eater in the first and second risings of Lord Voldemort—before their time, but his name had come up amongst their parents. He gained infamy amongst Order members during the Death Eater trials following the Battle of Hogwarts and the final defeat of the Dark Lord. Priori Incantatem indicated he had cast a dozen Killing Curses throughout the battle. Questioning under Veritaserum revealed that only one had found its target—in Remus, Teddy Lupin's father.

Al had grown up with Teddy, who often came by the Den to visit Harry, his godfather. To Al, Teddy was the older brother who only made fun of him when he knew Al would laugh as well.

"I—I've never met him, but he's my grandfather," said Ana. She now sat with her shoulders pressed flat against the back of her seat, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She looked like she was preparing herself to be thrown out. Rose was glancing between Al and Ana with trepidation, but Al shrugged off her worry with slight frustration. If he were James, _then_ she would have cause for concern—but Al found himself intrigued more than anything.

"Do you—want to be sorted into Slytherin?" he asked, trying to interpret her strange behavior thus far. "Or are you hoping you won't be?"

"…Both," admitted Ana. She seemed to relax at his question, and Al had a feeling she had never discussed this with anyone before. "My dad _really_ wants me Sorted there, like he would've been, he says, if he'd gone to Hogwarts—"

"He didn't?" asked Peter. He was regarding Ana with a mixture of distaste and curiosity.

Ana shook her head. "Durmstrang. Always wished he could have gone to Hogwarts, but Gran thought it'd be safer for him somewhere outside Britain—" She stopped, suddenly embarrassed, as though she had said too much. "I just don't want to disappoint him," she mumbled.

"But you really _don't_ want to be in Slytherin," Peter clarified.

She did not look at him as she replied, "I know what everyone still thinks of Slytherin. I know I'd have an easier time of things, of everything, if I were Sorted into… 'any House _but_ Slytherin,' and it'd be nice, I guess, if things were easy." She laced her fingers and leaned forward to hook her knee, rocking back and forth a bit.

If things were easy… Al leaned back in his own seat, thinking hard. What had his father said about easy things and right things? It had been awhile since he heard the story, but it was returning to him.

"You just reminded me of something my dad told me when I was younger," said Al, the thought still taking shape. "About—I think he said, about making choices between what's right and what's easy. And how an easy way is not always the right way. It was the best advice Dumbledore ever gave him, he said."

Not sure whether he had worded it right, he looked over at Ana, hoping he hadn't hurt her feelings. But Ana had ceased her rocking and was staring at him with something akin to wonder—whether because what he had relayed had come from Albus Dumbledore via Harry Potter, or because what he had said struck a chord, he wasn't sure. He shrugged and smiled hopefully at her. He found himself feeling a bit better, at least.

"Well…" Rose began. "What if we promise now that, no matter what houses we're sorted into, we'll be friends? That'll automatically make it easier, won't it?"

Al thought that was simplifying things a bit much, but said nothing, because Ana was smiling. It seemed to cost her much less effort to do so than the girl from _The Addams Family_, he noted with relief.

"All right," said Ana.

Again, the boys found Rose Weasley staring at them expectantly.

"Uh, yeah—sure," said Al, glancing at Peter, who raised a shoulder noncommittally.

Content with this, Rose turned to Ana, saying something about whatever class she was most excited about—all of them, Al guessed. He wondered whether it would be rude to pull out a book, or if Peter expected him to make conversation.

"How soon will we start flying lessons, do you reckon?" Peter asked him.

Well, that decided things. He tried to subtly convey his disinterest by pretending to search for something in his book bag as he replied:

"Probably a few weeks into term. Not really looking forward to them, though. James says the school brooms are ancient."

As a second year, James was allowed to take his broom with him to school. Al tried sneaking his own into his trunk, but his mum had caught him at it and given him a lecture about breaking school rules and losing points for Gryffindor. He thought wistfully of his Meteor 12, the model he got for his birthday last year, his first broom…

"…or that's what I think, at least," Peter was saying. Al blinked, trying to remember what, exactly, Peter thought.

"Uh, yeah…" he said. Casting around for something more to say, he was rescued by a rumbling in his stomach. "Merlin, I'm starving."

"Think the snack cart's on its way," said Peter, cocking an ear. Al thought could hear squeaking wheels and crinkling wrappers somewhere beyond the sliding door. Peter was searching his pockets. "Mum only gave me a Galleon for food. Should buy me enough Chocolate Frogs to really get me started, though."

"To keep you for the rest of term, you mean," Al said with a snort. "A Galleon's worth? That's, what—" He tried to do the math in his head. "—a hundred Frogs?"

"At least!" said Peter, rubbing at an angry spot on his chin. Al averted his eyes, but Peter evidently detected some of his disdain, as he continued defensively: "Well, I'm not going to _eat_ them all, am I? I'd probably _die_! But if I want a shot at the prize I have to get a hold of as many cards as I can, right?"

Al had no idea what he was talking about. This, too, could be read in his expression, as Peter was staring at him in disbelief.

"You haven't heard of the _Chocolate Frog Challenge_? Merlin, Potter! Where have your parents been keeping you? First that comment at the window—" At Al's confusion, he exclaimed, "Hello! '_Why is everybody staring?_' Why is everybody staring at _Harry Potter_? I mean— hello!"

It was then, with a certain detached surprise, Al knew that he and Peter Bones would never end up being very good friends. He tried to stifle a sudden sense of disappointment. It was silly, he knew, but in the back of his mind he had been expecting to meet his life-long best mates right here on the train. His father had, after all…

But as he had already reminded himself, he was not his father. And so, he was making the trip stuck in a compartment with his overbearing cousin, Wednesday Addams, and a pimply kid he rather wanted to hit.

"—and now the _Challenge_!" hollered Peter, attracting the attention of Rose and Ana. "Hi, it's been all over the place for the past week!" At Al's continued silence, he gave a snort of disbelief and turned away to rummage in the book bag propped at his feet. When he sat up again, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ was clutched in his hand. He trust it towards Al, saying, "Front page, side panel."

Al wordlessly took the paper and scanned the narrow panel of news briefs running down the side of the front page. He soon found what he assumed he was looking for:

_**Candy Critters Co. Re-Release New Round of Famous Wizards Cards**_

_As the fourth week of the 'Chocolate Frog Challenge' comes to a close, the Candy Critters Company confirms the re-release of four more Famous Wizards Cards, bringing the current total to thirteen. "We of course cannot say which cards have been re-released," said a company spokeswitch. "But you'll know them by the newly designed Famous Wizards logo on the back—and of course, by the riddle posed by the Famous Witch or Wizard on the front."_

_Officially begun on August 7__th__, the Chocolate Frog Challenge is a nationwide contest for all witches and wizards under seventeen, jointly hosted by the CC Co. and the MCA Group. The Challenge Guidelines, announced in conjunction with the re-release of the first three Famous Wizards Cards, are as follows:_

_Throughout the coming year, the CC Co. will re-release a total of eighty-one Famous Wizards Cards with their Chocolate Frogs, each different Wizards Card charmed to ask a different riddle. If answered correctly, the Famous Witch or Wizard will provide the cardholder with a Word, and the name of the Famous Wizards Card with the next Word in the sequence. Acquire all the Words in their intended order to form the Ultimate Message (UM), which said aloud while holding aloft any of the re-released Famous Wizards Cards will bring the contestant to the Candy Critters Factory—where awaits the Ultimate Prize (UP)!_

Al finished reading and passed the paper to Ana and Rose. "Sounds a bit gimmicky to me," he said to Peter, who was waiting for a reaction.

"Gimmicky!" said Peter. "Everyone's talking about it—I still can't believe you didn't _know_ about it—"

"They're very vague towards the end, aren't they?" said Rose. "It doesn't say what the Ultimate Prize _is_—actually, it doesn't even say if you _get_ it…"

Ana laughed. "Yeah, just that it 'awaits.'"

"Well, of course you get it!" Peter blustered. "And if it's called the Ultimate Prize it's obviously something incredible!"

"Obviously," said Al, deadpan.

"But I wonder what it could be?" said Rose. "They're asking rather a lot, don't you think? Having us jump through hoops without even telling us what we'll get for it!"

"It's a candy company, though," Ana pointed out. "Maybe the prize is a life-time supply of chocolate?"

Al thought that would be a stupid Ultimate Prize. He still thought the whole thing seemed a bit overwrought, but he did have one question:

"What's the MCA Group?"

"Muggle Culture Awareness Group," answered Rose before Peter could open his mouth. "They asked Mum to sign a petition last month."

"Did she?" asked Al.

"Sign it? I think so," said Rose. "She said they meant well..."

"Translation: they're a joke," Peter interjected.

"I dunno," Rose said with a shrug. "They're all for wizards reading Muggle novels and listening to Muggle music—you know, that kind of thing."

Peter scoffed, but Al personally thought it a worthwhile concept, especially if it meant wizards owning televisions. The Dursley's telly was brilliant—massive, with endless channels—though he still had no idea how it worked without magic…

The sliding door rattled open.

"Anything off the cart, dears?" asked the snack witch. "And before you ask, yes—I've got enough Chocolate Frogs for anyone who wants 'em." She patted a wooden box atop the trolley. "Special Self-Replenishing Supply, straight from the factory."

---- ---- ----

Once Peter was busy eating the animated, chocolate amphibians and sorting Famous Wizards Cards, Al no longer felt obligated to carry on talking with him. Climbing up on the armrests of his seat, he reached into his trunk stowed on the overhead rack and extracted _Trainee Transfiguration_—the only textbook he found remotely interesting.

As he jumped back down, he noticed an approving glance from Rose and barely resisted rolling his eyes. He slouched low and propped the book up in his lap, blocking his cousin from view. Slowly leafing through the pages, he read whatever caught his eye, nibbling now and then on a Cauldron Cake.

He had only been reading for about ten minutes, however, when Peter cleared his throat, the sound accompanied by the crinkling of Chocolate Frog wrappers as he swept them off his lap onto the empty seat beside him. "All right, I'm gonna try one."

Ana and Rose looked up, watching interestedly as Peter held up a card so that Cornelius Agrippa faced the compartment. He appeared on the card as a middle aged wizard, dressed in a ruff and robe—common wizarding attire of the sixteenth century. At his side sat a large, black dog.

"Er, hi—Agrippa?" said Peter. "Could I hear the riddle?"

Agrippa sighed, and began to recite in a thick German accent, seemingly against his will:

_As I went to St Ives,_

_I met a man with seven wives;_

_Each wife had seven sacks,_

_Each sack had seven cats,_

_Each cat had seven kits;_

_Kits, cats, sacks, and wives._

_How many were going to St Ives?_

Peter stared up at the card in horror. "That's not a riddle! That's _math_!"

Rose was scrambling for quill and parchment in her book bag. "Ask him to repeat it and I'll try to get it down."

At his request, Agrippa repeated the riddle. Rose handed her notes over to Peter, who unhappily bent over the parchment with the borrowed quill and began scratching figures.

Al turned back to his book, but the riddle was running through his mind.

_As I went to St Ives… seven wives… kits, cats, sacks, and wives…_

After what seemed like ages, Peter threw down the quill and groped for the card. The parchment was covered in numbers and sevens and circles and arrows, but he had apparently gleaned some sense from it all, because he held Agrippa close to his face and said:

"2,800!"

"No!" cried Agrippa, looking as though he were finally enjoying himself. His dog barked, the sound tinny and small.

"What?" Peter yelled. "I double checked—it's 2,800!"

"That is not the answer I seek," said Agrippa.

Ana stared at the card, her forehead wrinkled in thought. Rose crossed the compartment and sat next to Peter, scanning the parchment in his lap. "Oh!" she said. "Maybe you forgot to add the husband? It says '_I met a _man_ with seven wives_'—"

"2,801?" Peter asked Agrippa.

Agrippa shook his head, grinning. "These children aren't very bright," he told the dog, scratching behind its ears. Peter was turning red in the face.

"We are so, you stupid—collector's item!"

"Easily riled, too."

"You're not supposed to say anything except the riddle and the Word and—"

"Peter, shut up a minute," said Al. Peter seemed inclined to take affront to this, as well, but Al cut him off. "Ask him to repeat it once more."

Peter rolled his eyes, but had Agrippa say the riddle a third time.

"Try—try 'one,'" said Al. He could see Agrippa craning his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the new speaker. Peter looked doubtful.

"One?" he said, looking down at Agrippa. The wizard sighed.

"Third time's the charm, I suppose."

"It's ONE!" shouted Peter, waving the card jubilantly. The dog yelped in protest as Agrippa clutched the edges of the card.

"Yes, yes, kindly stop whipping me about," he said. "The answer is one. Only one was headed to St Ives."

"So—the Word?" asked Peter.

"Breakfast," said Agrippa, straightening his ruff.

"Breakfast?" repeated Peter.

"Is it not a word?"

"Well, okay," said Peter. He wrote 'breakfast' on the crowded bit of parchment. "And the card with the next Word?"

"Glover Hipworth."

"Never heard of him," said Peter.

"That is not my problem," said Agrippa. "Please stop talking to me, I have told you all that I know."

Al decided he rather liked Agrippa. Perhaps he would look him up in the Hogwarts library…

"You're _brilliant_, Al!" said Peter, tossing Agrippa aside. "I would never have guessed that—"

"I think I would have, eventually…" mused Rose.

"I wouldn't have," Ana admitted.

"Here, Al—take some chocolate. Least I can do—you've got me started on the Challenge!"

"It is pretty exciting, isn't it?" said Ana. "I wonder if the riddles will all be like that, or if some will be easier."

Peter laughed around a mouthful of Chocolate Frog. "Easier, I 'ope!" He shallowed. "Or you'll be hearing from me again, Al!"

Al nodded and ducked back behind his book, hiding a pleased smile. While Peter passed out more chocolate to the girls, he went back to reading, this time taking a bite of Frog every few pages. The spells in _Trainee Transfiguration _were interesting, but the practical exercises for each spell seemed rather dull—turning toothpicks to needles and turnips to teacups—for most of the year. Towards the back of the book it had a few examples involving animals… Maybe if the class did well with toothpicks and vegetables they would move on to animals early…

Al read for the remainder of the trip, though he got up to pull on school robes as the sun set outside the window. The train was surrounded by nothing but forest, now, the sinking glare seeming to sputter in and out from behind the treetops.

"We should be there soon," said Rose, checking her watch.

At her words, Al's insides lurched with nerves. Breathing deep to bring his heart back down to a trot, he glanced up to see Ana looking about as apprehensive as he felt.

Peter began packing away his Famous Wizards Cards and spare Chocolate Frogs. "I hope it's a quick sorting," he said. "I'm about to die of starvation."

Al did not see how that was possible, as Peter had been stuffing his face with chocolate the entire trip—then reconsidered, remembering that Peter had shared said chocolate with the rest of them. It had been a long day, he supposed, and _he_ was rather hungry…

"Me, too," he said.

"Just think," said Rose. "By the time we go to bed tonight we'll be proper, Sorted, Hogwarts students."

"With no classes till Monday," added Ana, with dawning realization.

"Oh, no!" said Rose. "I hadn't even noticed—but it is Friday, isn't it? I have to wait two whole days before classes start!"

"Is she kidding?" Peter asked Al.

Al managed to keep a straight face. "Rose never kids," he replied.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Disclaimer: These are JKR's characters and their imagined offspring, and I'm not the boss of any of them.

A/N: This is my first time posting any of my writing online. It's surprisingly terrifying...

A/N II: The 'life-time supply of chocolate' line is borrowed from Roald Dahl's _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_; the riddle in this chapter is an old nursery rhyme :)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The doors of the scarlet train slid open all along the Hogsmeade Platform, expelling a swarming mass of students. Al was dwarfed in the crowd as it swept him along, a sense only bolstered by the sudden appearance of an enormous boot directly in front of him. His eyes traveled up an expanse of shaggy overcoat to a great, gray, bristly beard, just above which twinkled a pair of kind, black eyes.

"Hagrid!" said Al.

"FIRST YEARS THIS WAY!"

Al struggled to raise his voice above the noise of the crowd.

"_Hagrid_!" he said.

Still the gamekeeper failed to hear him.

"HAGRID!" he hollered, waving his arms.

His attention seemingly drawn to the flailing motion around his knee, Hagrid finally looked down.

"Al!" he cried. "I'm sorry, didn' see ya there! One second—" He let his eyes roam over the crowd a moment, and shouted again, "FIRST YEARS OVER HERE!"

Then Hagrid bent down, angling an ear towards Al.

"Were you shoutin'? My hearin's been gettin' worse all year, I'm about as deaf as bats'er blind—"

"That's okay!" said Al, speaking loudly and clearly. Noticing the growing numbers of short students gathering about, he asked, "Where are we supposed to go?"

"Lemme give one more shout," said Hagrid, and he straightened up, bellowing a final time for first years.

"There you are, Al!" said Rose, appearing at his side with Peter and Ana in tow. "I lost you in the crowd—"

"It's fine," said Al. "I found Hagrid," he added, a bit unnecessarily.

"ALL RIGHT!" said Hagrid. "FIRST YEARS, FOLLOW ME!" He turned and began wading through the throng of older students. The first years hurried to keep in his wake.

Hagrid led them away from the dirt road running off the Platform and into the woods, where they hiked single-file for some time. The trees on either side were overgrown and gnarled, completely blocking out the stars Al had seen blinking to life outside the train. A gentle breeze cooled his face and hushed through the leaves overhead.

Presently the path opened up, depositing them on the edge of a vast lake. It shone dark but for the hundreds of golden squares rippling on its surface—a reflection of the windows lit in the castle that loomed high over a cliff rimming the lake on the far side. Al gazed up at the towers and turrets, the parapets that stood black against the evening sky beyond, and all anxiety was for the moment forgotten, replaced by an awe that rooted him to the ground. His father had been very particular about none of his children seeing Hogwarts before the start of their first years, and now Al thought he knew why…

The trance was abruptly broken by the sounds of creaking wood and splashing water. Shaking his head, he saw he was one of only a few waylaid at the edge of the forest, among them a blond boy and a rather round girl, who were now similarly glancing about, a bit startled.

"Come on, Al—we've got room for one more!" yelled Rose from the shoreline, where she, Peter and Ana were hunched in a small, rickety boat—one of several stationed at the water's edge. Al hastened to climb aboard, settling on the back bench. Rose and Peter were sharing the middle, where the rower would normally sit, had the boat any oars.

"What a view, huh?" said Ana, curled at the prow with her chin in her hands, drinking in the sight with a sigh.

"Yeah," agreed Al.

"Everyone aboard?" he heard Hagrid shout somewhere along the line of old vessels. "All right—ONWARD!"

With a gentle lurch their boat pushed off from the strand, propelling itself slowly towards the castle. For the moment there was nothing but the light splash of water on bobbing wood, though murmurs grew among the boats as they skimmed the center of the lake.

Al heard one boy talking rapidly nearby, his voice carrying over the general hum of students. He strained to make out what he was saying, but Al need not have bothered, as the speaker abruptly gave a petrified yelp.

"Oh, _Merlin_!" the boy yelled. "I saw a _face_! A horrible, fishy _face_—grinning at me! In the water! I saw—Oh, _Merlin_—"

Al squinted in the dark, and thought it was the blond he had noticed at the edge of the forest, waving his arms in panic. The light from the distant windows glinted off his hair.

"Tha'll jus be some grindylows swimmin' up to say hello!" said Hagrid over the raised voices of the students within hearing. "Migh' not want ta stick yer hand out, though!"

"Oh, _god_—" Al heard the boy say, faintly.

"That one hasn't shut up since we got off the train," said Peter.

"He's just excited," said Rose, shivering a bit in the wind sweeping the lake.

"We're all excited," Peter replied, unconvinced this warranted one of them chattering like a monkey.

"I think I see a cave!" Ana exclaimed, pointing to a patch of long vines, through which the water seemed to pass, easing beyond the exterior of the cliff.

She was right—and they were coasting straight for it, the fleet narrowing to proceed in groups of three through the vines. Al's boat entered the cave, all of them brushing trailing plants from their shoulders. Ahead, empty boats continued on through the tunnel, having unloaded its passengers on the rocky bank. They disembarked to join the other children, who were congregating at the base of a stone set of stairs. At the top was a stout wooden door.

Al turned when he heard the blond boy behind him, prattling on to a girl in his boat, which had just pulled up to the shore. As his shipmates struggled to swing their legs onto dry land, the boy finished was he saying with a laugh and leapt from the prow, sticking his landing with a crunch of gravel.

He straightened and caught Al watching him. Tipping his head to the side like an inquisitive puppy, he contemplated his observer, allowing Al to do the same. He recognized the boy from King's Cross, but could not recall his name. Malfoy's son… The one Uncle Ron said Rose shouldn't get too close to…

The moment ended as suddenly as it began—someone nudged the boy from behind, trying to reach the rest of the first years by the stairs, and Al lost sight of him amongst the group.

When the last students had stumbled from their boats, Hagrid trudged up the steps and knocked. The door flew open, and in its place stood a tall witch, silhouetted in the light spilling from the castle. She was entirely composed of spiky angles: all pointed hat, sharp shoulders and jutting elbows.

"The first years, ma'am," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Professor Hagrid," she said, her voice surprisingly gruff for that of a witch. She stepped back, motioning the students forward, and her front was bathed in light, revealing a lean face weighted with age.

The children ascended the stairs, trainers scuffling on stone trodden smooth by the generations of first years before them. They were led through a short corridor and into the Entrance Hall, which would have been another cause for wonder had Al not noticed the muffled cacophony of older students beyond the double doors. They were all there—his brother, his cousins, the professors, some of whom his parents had known since childhood, and the hundreds of other students… All those eyes, focused on _him_…

Quite without his knowledge, his feet had kept pace with the others, and he found himself in a small room adjoining the Great Hall, where they were packed in tight. Standing by the door, the spiky witch cleared her throat.

"I am Professor Sinistra," she said. "Once classes commence on Monday, you will all have me three times a week for Astronomy. I am also Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, and Head of Ravenclaw House."

A few students, certain of their futures in Ravenclaw, smiled up at her.

"Soon I will lead you into the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony. You will be Sorted into one of the four Houses of Hogwarts School—Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, or Slytherin—according to where the Sorting Hat decides you're best suited…"

She went on, saying something about the House points system, but Al was no longer listening. Here was a second affirmation that his father had been mistaken: _the Sorting Hat decides_… He stared blankly ahead, trying to control his breathing so as not to hyperventilate.

"You all right, mate?" asked Peter, looking at him askance.

"We should be ready for you momentarily," finished Professor Sinistra, and she left them, closing the door behind her.

In the sudden outburst of whispers, Al heard the blond boy somewhere in front of him, claiming he already knew what House he would be in… his grandparents had told him all about the family legacy the last time he had visited them in France, where they raised Abraxans…

Al thought Abraxans were really cool. He wondered if any of theirs were named Pegasus—

He shook his head. He could not afford distractions, he had to think like a Gryffindor, focus on Gryffindor. Maybe if he pretended really hard that he were James, the Hat would be fooled—but how did James think? Al knew how James thought about _him_, but if he tried to convey _that _to the Hat it would think he were a self-hating lunatic and declare him best suited to St. Mungos—

"Al?" said Rose. "Erm, you okay? You're all sweaty…"

"M'fine," Al mumbled.

"He really is freaking out," said Peter, raising his eyebrows.

Before Al could respond, Professor Sinistra reentered the room, a three-legged stool clutched in her hand.

"This way, please," she said, indicating a side door, and slowly they moved, in some semblance of a queue, out into the Great Hall.

The vast room was bright with candles floating high above and packed with students, all arranged along four long tables. At the back of the Hall, where the first years were emerging, sat the teachers. An old, round witch with wispy, flyaway white hair was seated in a large, ornately carved chair at the center of the table.

Must be Headmistress Sprout, Al thought. Attempting to ignore the waves of tension rolling through his chest, he forced his eyes from chair to chair, identifying familiar faces: Professor Longbottom, who gave Al a nod and wink; Professor Finch-Fletchley, whom Al had met last year at a Ministry party, but as he taught Muggle Studies Al wouldn't have him until third year; Coach Wood, the Flying Instructor, who had flown for Puddlemere United; Mr. Thomas, who was heading a new Arts & Spellcraft program, his father said; Hagrid, sitting in a sturdy chair at the end…

The first years were made to stand before the teachers, facing the student body. Professor Sinistra placed the stool in front of them, set the frayed Sorted Hat atop it, and stood aside.

There was quiet in the Hall, then the Hat stirred. A rip by its brim opened wide like a mouth and began to sing:

For centuries I've sorted students

Into the old Hogwarts Houses four,

Based upon what I think is prudent

On surmising what lies at their cores.

The iron willed and lionhearted,

Who boldness and bravery espouse,

And from the fight would not be parted,

I direct them to Gryffindor House.

For children born dutiful and true,

Whose wands are ever at the ready;

For the firm, and the diligent, too,

Hufflepuff calls, House of the steady.

To Ravenclaw, I send the sharp brains:

Those scholars of logic and reason

With whom complex thinking fails to strain;

Here, learning is always in season.

Slytherin, for the quick and astute,

Those students of high aspiration;

Who will, I hope, improve its repute

And lead the House out of damnation.

I sing much the same song once a year

At the beginning of each new term.

I sing for both the old and new ears,

But again and again starts to germ

The notion that I warble in vain—

Though you applaud, you fail to take heed;

My message drains away with the rain.

So I repeat, a decades-old need:

The Houses must respect each other,

Put aside this distrust and distaste.

Or else, why did the Founders bother?

You put their great endeavors to waste.

Hogwarts today falls short of their dream,

Of what they envisioned at the start:

A school, throughout the whole world supreme,

Of youngsters joined in the Magic Arts.

Unity amongst any wizards

Is a fickle plant to have to grow

But sure as Yetis in a blizzard

The Founders would have wanted it so.

Finished, the Hat bowed its tip, waiting for applause—but the silence that preceded its song continued for a beat. Then two.

Then Headmistress Sprout stood up from her chair and began to clap, smiling fondly at the Sorting Hat. After a moment, the teachers and students applauded as well, though with a certain degree of reservation.

"Does it always—scold?" Al heard someone ask quietly to his left.

"My sister says it's been complaining more every year," said Peter, with borrowed exasperation.

"How can it say all the Founders wanted unity when Slytherin walked out?" muttered a girl behind him.

"It was only talking about their dream 'at the start,'" Al found himself replying. _You're just full of answers today, aren't you?_ said his James voice. "Shut up," Al breathed.

"I was only asking," the girl snapped.

Al turned, alarmed, but before he could utter a word of apology Professor Sinistra raised her voice above the whispers rampant in the Hall.

"You will step forward to be Sorted when I call your name," she said, picking up the Hat with one hand and letting a scroll unfurl to the ground in the other.

Al felt a nest of worms squirming in his stomach. He thought he might be sick.

"Ackerley, St. John!"

A scrawny, brown-haired boy staggered forward and perched on the stool. Professor Sinistra lowered the Hat onto his head. St. John sat perfectly still the few seconds it took the Hat to announce:

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left burst into cheers as St. John ducked out from beneath the Hat and bolted for the first available seat amongst his housemates.

The Sorting Hat shouted its decisions rather quickly for the first few students. The As turned into Bs, and then Sinistra was calling for Peter Bones, as Argiletum Blotts marched to Slytherin.

Peter waited under the hat for all of two seconds.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Hat declared, and beaming, Peter made for the cheering students second from the right.

Al stared after him, and immediately wished he had not. Sitting just beyond Peter, at the Gryffindor table, he saw James saying something from behind his hand to their cousin Ray, who doubled over in muted laughter.

He would have bet a Galleon they were talking about him.

"Dolohov, Anastasiya!"

Al turned to Ana, startled—they were already mid-D? Glancing at him, Ana mustered a smile, and went to the stool. The Hat engulfed her, so that only the braids were visible, hanging past her shoulders.

There was a long pause. Al held his breath.

The Hat tipped forward a bit, then back. Somewhere inside it, Ana had nodded.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Beside him, he heard Rose sigh.

Ana raised a hand to the brim, peeking out from underneath. The Slytherins were clapping to the far left. Throughout the rest of the Hall, a few students leaned out from their benches for a better look. They recognized the name…

Ana removed the Hat, handed it to Sinistra, and walked to her housemates. She kept her back very straight.

Good posture, Al thought. Auntie Fleur would approve…

She sat down next to the Blotts boy, who gave her a shy grin. Al watched her—even as Harrison Drake went with cheers to Gryffindor, Anthony Edwards to Hufflepuff—waiting for some sign of dismay or panic. But Ana was calm, replying to something Blotts had said. She smiled and clapped when Danica Kalna, a bony, fair-haired girl, joined the table.

She's all right, Al thought. Or else hiding that she's upset…

As May Li made her way to Ravenclaw, the Malfoy boy stepped out of the line of remaining first years and dropped onto the stool.

"But she never called his name!" whispered Rose.

It appeared Professor Sinistra had realized the same thing. She looked down at the boy, then back to her list, and raised an eyebrow.

"Malfoy, Scorpius?" she enquired.

The boy seemed confused.

"…Y-es?" he said.

Sinistra shrugged and set the hat on his head as scattered laughter was stifled around the Hall. Poorly stifled at Gryffindor, Al noticed.

The Hat took but a second to decide.

"SLYTHERIN!" it shouted.

Scorpius pulled off the Hat and went, chin high with exaggerated dignity, to his table.

Al would have chuckled if his insides were not tying themselves in knots. He hoped it would not cause intestinal problems.

McKenzie McDonald went to Gryffindor. His James voice was singing.

…_L, M, N, O, P…_

Al wished N and O were more popular letters. O was a bit awkward, he understood that, but N was only slightly different to M—why wasn't it just as common? It was prejudice, is what it was. It was—what was the word Aunt Hermione had used? She said it meant letter—_epistle_.

It was Epistle Prejudice.

…Or had she meant an owled letter?

"Potter, Albus!"

Oh, Merlin.

He saw Rose pat his arm, and was sure it would have felt reassuring were he not completely numb. He was glad his legs seemed to know what to do, as they carried the top portion of him to the stool and bent at the knees, forcing him to sit.

Al had time to observe that the prior butts had warmed the seat before he was enveloped in musty darkness.

"_Albus Severus Potter!_" said a voice in his ear. It sounded rather excited. Al had mixed feelings about this—on the one hand, if it were happy to meet him because it remembered his father, he might have an easier time convincing it to put him in Gryffindor; on the other, excitable hats, for all he knew, were the most difficult sorts of hat to reason with—

"_Goodness! Slow down or you'll blow an axon,_" warned the Hat.

Right, sorry, thought Al.

"_I will have you know I am happy meet you, and not merely because of your father, nor am I prone to fits of excitement_. _I was hoping you'd be a better fit than your brother, and so you are, so you are._" It paused, then asked: "_Do you trust me, Al Potter?_"

Not really, Al thought, before he could help it. Unbidden, one of his grandfather's favorite sayings came to mind: '_Never trust anything if you can't see where it keeps its brain!_'

"_I would advise you don't look up_," said the Hat.

Oh, _Merlin_, thought Al, and just resisted shielding his head with his hands.

"_If that's sorted,_" said the Hat, and chortled at its own joke. "_Then I suggest you do trust me, my friend, when I say that it needs you as much as you need it—"_

What—?

"_And by 'it,' I mean_ SLYTHERIN!" it finished, shouting the last word.

Al went rigid, hands clamped on the rim of the stool. This was not supposed to happen. This was supposed to be something he _worried_ about happening, something his brother _teased_ him about happening, something his parents promised they would not _mind_ happening—but it was not _ever_ actually supposed to… happen…

Maybe—maybe if I just stay here they won't make me go, he thought wildly.

_No_, said his James voice._ They'll laugh at you, and _then_ they'll make you go_—

"_Neurotic little thing, aren't you?_" interrupted the Hat. "_You let your brother torment you when he's not even trying!_"

Someone cleared their throat outside the muffled darkness, and then the Hat was being lifted off his head.

No—thought Al, weakly.

"_You'll be fine,_" said the Sorting Hat, then its brim cleared his face, and Al's shock was reflected at him a hundredfold. Sinistra was peering down at him curiously, holding the Hat high above where he sat. At the Gryffindor table he saw his cousins—Victoire, blue eyes wide; Fred, further down; Corey and Clay, for once speechless; then Ray. With dread, he let his gaze move on to James.

His brother was staring at him with the strangest expression—almost hungry, his eyes devouring the scene before them. And alongside the disbelief, Al could have sworn he saw a flash of something else. Something like… elation. But why…?

A clapping shattered the silence. Ana was staring at him expectantly, suppressed panic written across her face as she brought her hands together over and over, in a rapid, determined rhythm. The Blotts boy joined in a moment later, then the bony girl. Even the Malfoy boy—Scorpius—began to applaud.

Legs taking control again, Al rose unsteadily from the stool, watching his feet in bemusement as they effected a passable stride. The clapping spread, with varying levels of enthusiasm, until the Slytherin table was applauding as normally as it had for anyone. It petered out as he reached the far bench, and Al slid gratefully into a space Ana had hurriedly cleared.

"Al!" she exclaimed quietly. "What are you doing here?"

Despite her distress, Al sensed she was fighting a smile. He expelled a breathy laugh, low and a bit hysterical.

"I dunno," he said, shaking his head. "I just—I dunno."

He inhaled as much as his lungs could take, glancing back at the stool and Hat, which had just declared Olivia Quirke a Ravenclaw. The stool looked so far away… he could hardly believe he had made it.

As the ceremony continued, Al evaluated the first years close-by. Blotts, the boy on his left, was absently folding his napkin into a crane. On the opposite bench, the bony girl was following the Sorting carefully, stretching her neck to get a better view of each student. Next to her, Scorpius Malfoy was paying as close attention to Al, regarding him as though attempting to classify his species.

Al tried arching an eyebrow at him, but he had never quite mastered that trick of the face, and a corner of his mouth quirked up as well.

"SLYTHERIN!" yelled the Sorting Hat, and they all glanced around, clapping, to see an athletic-looking girl headed for the table. She sat a few benches away, amongst a few similarly fit students. Quidditch players, Al guessed.

"What was her name?" he asked.

"Abigail Vaisey," the bony girl replied, eyes trained on Professor Sinistra, who was reaching the end of her scroll.

"Weasley, Rose!" Sinistra called.

Rose approached the stool, glancing towards the Slytherin table as she went. Al resisted waving to her—he had an idea that remaining as inconspicuous as possible was probably the safest course of action. Or—well, inaction.

Rose sat, her head obscured by the Hat. It remained so for a full minute.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat shouted, and Rose was met with loud cheers as she ran to her family on the far side of the Hall.

Al was visited by a strange sense of his own absence at their table, and something shriveled in his chest.

He was glaring at his place setting, trying not to think about it, when a warm hand came to rest between his shoulder blades. He knew it was Ana's—he doubted the Blotts boy would be doling out comfort to strangers—but when he cut his eyes to the side she was quietly watching the last first year, Daisy Zeller, become a Hufflepuff. He didn't really mind, anyway, so he followed her lead and didn't acknowledge the hand.

She removed it from his back once Daisy was happily stowed at her table. The Sorting was over.

Professor Sinistra carried away the Hat and stool, and Headmistress Sprout stood up, both hands raised.

"Welcome, new and continuing students," she said, smiling benevolently at them all. "I won't prolong your hunger. Please, let the feast begin!"

The tables groaned at her words, as platter upon bowl upon pitcher were suddenly full of food and drink. There was a flurry along every table as the students dove to help themselves. Al reached for a turkey leg, suddenly ravenous.

"So," said Scorpius Malfoy, pouring himself a goblet of pumpkin juice. He glanced from Ana to Al. "I don't think we've been introduced."

Al eyed him uneasily. Everyone had heard Sorted—why was he making a show?

"Er, well—everyone," said Ana. "This is Al Potter."

The bony girl smiled and waved a fork.

"Danica," she said.

Al nodded hello.

"Argiletum Beecher Blotts," said Blotts beside him, sticking out a formal hand. "But Argil will do," he added, as he and Al shook.

"Albus… Severus Potter," Al said, in kind. "And Al's fine."

He heard a short laugh, and turned to see Scorpius grinning triumphantly at them from across the table.

"I have you both beat," he said, extending a hand to Al. "Scorpius Lucius Ignatius Malfoy. But I answer only to Scor, Malfoy, or _Mister_ Malfoy."

"I'll remember that," said Al, shaking his hand.

"What do your parents call you?" asked Agril, as Scorpius—Scor—shook his hand as well.

"Son," he said, reaching for a spoon.

Al bit back a laugh.

"Is that why you went before Sinistra said your name?" asked Danica. "So you wouldn't have to answer to it?"

Scor paused in the midst of serving himself mashed potato.

"What?" he said.

"You went to the stool before she called you," Danica said.

"N-o…" said Malfoy, lowering his arm. He stared at her, waiting for her to remember correctly. "She said my name _twice_, like she was checking it was really me—" He scoffed. "Like I could be anyone else with this hair."

Danica turned, seeking support from the others.

"You did," said Ana. "She only said your name once, when you were already sitting down—"

Scor gazed around at each of them, perplexed.

"But I—"

"Maybe you just thought you heard her call you," Al suggested. "Because you knew your name would be coming up, after the Ls?"

"I… suppose I must have," said Scor, though he sounded unconvinced. He poked at the potatoes, and frowned. "That's why people were laughing, then?"

"It could have been worse," said Argil, matter-of-factly. "You could've sat down and it turned out you _weren't_ next on the list."

Scor cringed at the thought.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Guess I was lucky, really…"

They all nodded emphatically, and Scor let the issue drop, though Al noticed he was quiet the rest of the meal—or quieter than his first impression of Scor would have led Al to expect.

Danica and Ana were getting along, and Al was content to let Argil talk, with polite pauses as he properly chewed his food, about the many trips he had made with his parents that summer to locations Al had never even heard of. They sounded exotic, though—like the Ryukyu Islands, which Al gathered were a part of Japan, and Juneau, which, as Argil informed him, was the capital of Alaska in the United States.

Al was wondering what Argil's parents did for a living, to be able to fund such outings, when it occurred to him in a flash.

Argil _Blotts_—could he be…? But that meant Al was sitting next to one of the richest boys in Wizarding Britain!

His mother mentioned it when they went to Diagon Alley for his supplies—they had gone to Flourish & Blotts, which she said was owned by Blotts Brothers, who had a wand in everything: books, clothes… They even bought out Quality Quidditch Supplies not too long ago; she had written an article about it for the _Daily Prophet_…

"Al?" said Argil. "Is there something in the pudding?"

"What? No," he said, snapping out it. He had been gaping at the treacle tart. "No, sorry. Just, er—deciding whether I want some…"

"You do," said Scor, speaking up for the first time in a while.

Al reached for the tray. "It's good?" he asked.

"I'm on my third," replied Scor.

Al was on his second helping, and Argil was telling Danica about the Kappa he had seen on a cruise of the Yellow Sea, when a hush fell over the Hall. The Headmistress had levered herself from her chair.

"A few start-of-term announcements before I send you off to bed," she said. She cleared her throat, and continued in a stern tone that rather conflicted with the wrinkled laughter lines at her eyes. "First, our dear old caretaker, Mr. Filch, has, for the discerning student, posted an extensive and updated chart of forbidden items outside his office. He has requested I explicitly state that all WWW products are prohibited, and will be confiscated if found on school grounds.

"Second, by the good will of the calendar, you have two days until classes start. Schedules will be handed out on Monday morning. So make the most of your last weekend free of homework! Within reason, of course," she hastened to add, as Sinistra shot her a reproving glance. "Always within reason. That is all! Prefects, please lead our new students out first, we don't want to lose anyone. Good night!"

Al took a last gulp of pumpkin juice.

"First year Gryffindors this way!"

Looking up at the sound of his cousin Fred, he started to stand—then stopped, remembering where he was. If the others noticed his near mistake, no one said anything.

"Slytherin shorties follow me!" said a slender, pug-nosed girl a few feet away. Without waiting to see if anyone had heard her, she turned and strode quickly for the door.

The five of them scrambled clear of the benches and jogged to catch up with her. Along the table, other first years were hurrying to do likewise.

"Slow down!" called a burly boy, still swallowing his last bite of pudding.

"Eat less!" the girl tossed over her shoulder.

As he passed through the double doors, Al saw Rose amongst a crowd of first years climbing the Grand Staircase. Fred was ushering them up from behind.

Their impatient prefect led them across the Entrance Hall to the left of the Grand Staircase, where a set of steps wound downward into the depths of the castle. Torch brackets on the walls lit their descent at guttering intervals. On reaching the bottom, they were met with a mess of corridors and secret passageways, which their guide navigated with ease.

"I foresee myself getting lost for the next year," Scor muttered at his side.

"We'll just have to go round in pairs at first," Al replied.

"Then I foresee _us_ getting lost for the next year," said Scor, not much comforted.

"Here we are," said the girl, halting in front of a blank expanse of stone.

Al looked around for some sort of door, but Scor directed his attention back to the wall.

"Copperhead," said the girl, and the wall slid back with a dull grinding of rock to reveal a dim entryway. Beyond lay a wide, strangely lit room. "Well, go on!" the girl said.

Hesitantly, they moved through the entrance into the Common Room, where they stood clustered together, peering around.

The strange light, Al quickly saw, was due to the room being partially under the lake—murky water pressed in on the high, magically-reinforced windows, casting greenish shadows along the low ceiling. They were closed in by five walls: one doubled as the entrance, which had just ground back into place; one featured a large, white marble fireplace; one in which were set two heavy, steel-banded doors; and two covered in ornate woven tapestries. Along the dark carpet ran long stripes of gray, connecting each corner of the room to the four others, so that a pentagon spanned the floor. Old wooden tables were grouped by one wall, and around the rest of the space were armchairs and couches of stuffed, green leather.

It—it's not _so_ bad, thought Al.

"Girls' dorms through the left door, boys' through the right," said the girl from behind them. "I'm Violet Urquhart. You have any questions, ask your pillows."

And with that, she walked away, disappearing into the girls' dorms. In the nervous quiet that fell with her departure, Al heard the sounds of footsteps outside the sliding wall—the rest of the Slytherins were arriving from the Great Hall.

Rather than stay to brave new and possibly unwelcoming faces, Al headed swiftly for the dormitories. He sensed the others doing the same, and wondered if they shared this sentiment, or if perhaps they were just tired. Reaching the boys' door first, he yanked it open, looking up in time to see Ana pulling wide the door on his left.

"Goodnight," he said.

She sent him a quick, evaluating glance. "'Night," she said. "See you in the morning, yeah?"

"Yeah," he said. He took a deep breath, and continued through the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Exploring?" said Argil uncertainly, the next day at breakfast.

He, Ana and Al were the only Slytherin first years there. It was early yet, but judging by the raucous snores issuing from the other boys' beds, Al suspected he and Argil would be the only ones from their dormitory eating.

"I'll go," said Ana, stretching for the juice pitcher. "Even if we don't find it, it'll be fun just seeing the grounds."

"But they give us a map of the entire estate with our schedules," said Argil. "Won't the tunnel be marked on there?"

"It's a _secret_ tunnel," replied Al, shaking his head. "Secret tunnels aren't marked on maps! Then they wouldn't be secret."

"I don't know," said Argil, sighing. "I wanted to write Mother and Father before lunch. Meant to do it yesterday, but I fell asleep…"

Al nodded, and tried not to think about his own letter to his parents, telling them about his Sorting, that he had written last night. He had woken to lingering darkness that morning, sandy-eyed from a fitful sleep. Doubting he would be able to doze off again, he had dressed and gone over the letter a fifth time. It sounded just as awkward as it had the first time, after he haltingly wrote it, sprawled on his dark green duvet and hidden behind the thick bed hangings. It was currently furled in his pocket.

"Come on, Argil," Ana was saying. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I'll pretend I'm a fugitive on my way to the owlery," said Argil, his mind made up. He took a last bite of toast and stood.

Al contemplated asking Argil to mail his letter as well, but decided against it. He had only just met Argil—what if he was the nosy type and read it?

"All right," said Ana, a bit disappointed. "See you later, then?"

"Yes." Argil nodded to Ana, then to Al. "Er—good luck."

As he walked away, Ana chuckled quietly.

"What?" asked Al.

"Argil!" said Ana, keeping her voice low. "He's… funny."

"Old," Al corrected.

"That's it!" she exclaimed. "He's like an old man! Really," she said, adopting a serious face. "He reminds me of my great uncle."

Al could not help wondering whether this uncle was a sibling of Antonin Dolohov's.

"He's just, erm…" he trailed off, distracted. "…A bit stiff."

"He's nice, though," said Ana, reconsidering. "I like him."

"Oh, yeah, me t—I mean, sure you do." He coughed and pushed away his plate. "You done?"

Ana gave him a small, puzzled frown over her empty goblet.

"Yeah," she said.

---- ---- ---- ----

At the bottom of the front steps outside, Al made a quick decision, and before he could change his mind turned toward the castle. Raising his thumb and forefinger to his mouth, he whistled a brief, shrill note.

Ana jumped in surprise.

"What—?" she said, but no sooner had the sound faded than a white shape came soaring out of the top of the nearest tower.

"Sorry," said Al, following the barn owl's rapid descent. "I need to do this, first."

"It heard you from all the way up there?" asked Ana, staring up at the bird.

"My Aunt Hermione says owls have better hearing than a wizard with an Aural Charm," he said.

"A… mouth charm?" she asked, confused.

"What? No, I said—whoa!" He held up his arm just in time for the owl to land, flapping its wings in short bursts to find its balance. "Good girl," he murmured. Looking back at Ana, he continued: "Not _or_al, _au_ral. It means hearing, I reckon."

"Right," said Ana, her attention diverted by the bird. "So… good ears, then?"

"Yeah." He noticed Ana staring. "Oh! I'm sorry—this is Filibert."

"Filibert?" she repeated. "But I thought you called it a girl…?"

"She is, but I named her before I knew that." He shifted his arm, trying to keep the heavy owl level. "Mum shortened it to Filly, 'cause it was more girly, but she'd only answer to Filibert…" He trailed off, suddenly reminded of Scor, who had so recently voiced a similar attitude. He should introduce the two.

_Filibert, this is Scorpius, who answers only to Scor. Scor, this is Filly, who answers only to Filibert._

…Maybe not. Scor would probably think it was stupid, or that Al was making fun.

"Well, Filibert, you're very pretty—or um, handsome? You're a fine creature," said Ana, landing on a neutral compliment. "Lovely pale coloring."

Filibert preened, smoothing a few errant feathers on her wing. Down the back of her head to her tail feathers, the white was splashed with yellow, which shone like gold in the morning sunlight.

Chuckling, the same springing to mind again, Al said, unthinkingly, "Kinda like—like you," he ended, catching himself.

_Oh, even better, Al_, he thought with an inner groan. _Now she's going to think you called her a fine creature with pale coloring—which technically_ does_ describe Ana, only now she's going to think you _like_ her or something_.

Ana, perhaps mercifully, did not seen flattered—just uncomfortable.

"Right," she said. "Erm, thanks?"

Having no idea where to go from there, Al glanced down at the weight on his arm. Why was Filibert here?

Ana cleared her throat. "So, do you have something to mail, or—"

Oh! The letter—he groped for it with his free hand, drawing the crushed scroll out of his pocket.

"Yeah," he said hurriedly. "I—figured I should let my parents know, so…" He offered the rolled parchment to Filibert, who snatched it up in her beak. "Um, careful with that, Fil…"

The barn owl, resentful of the implication that she was at all unreliable, looked away and launched herself haughtily into the air.

Ana's eyes were wide. Minus the robe, she could have been Wednesday Addams' pleasant twin.

"What d'you think they'll say?" she asked.

"No idea," said Al, starting toward the Forest. "My dad told me he'd be fine with it, when I asked—"

"You suspected?" interrupted Ana, shocked. "You didn't say anything on the train!"

"I didn't _really_ think I'd be Sorted here!" Al protested. "My family call me Potter the Pessimist! I always worry about the worst thing that could possibly happen—I mean." He tried to rephrase at Ana's pointed look. "I mean—you know what I mean!"

Ana Looked.

"All right, for the not-even-a-day that I've been in Slytherin, it's not been that bad," he conceded. "But that's because I've either been hiding in my bed or with _you_—"

Ana grinned.

Al rolled his eyes. "What I mean is that I've been trying really hard not to think about what it's going to be like being in a House that most of my family still sneer at whenever someone says the name—"

He inhaled, and guessed his face had gone bright red, as Ana was watching him with concern. Why did his face _always_ have to turn red? When he was upset, or angry, or laughing too hard, or the least bit embarrassed, or even if someone was staring at him, sometimes; they all triggered a full on flush.

They reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest and turned right, walking along the line of thinly scattered trees. Teddy said he had found one end of the tunnel at the base of a tree, in its twisted roots, on the Forest's fringe.

"No one _sneers_ anymore," said Ana quietly.

"No," Al admitted. "But that's the thing, isn't it? No one can be too obvious about it, 'cause now it's rude, but it's still there, in the little things— 'Don't smirk, dear, you look like a Slytherin,' and have you noticed that no one _ever _puts green and silver together? Not in jewelry or clothes or anything, 'cause people won't buy it. Makes them think of Slytherin—"

"You can't _know_ that," said Ana, laughing.

"I've looked!" said Al. "Mum has jewelry order-books at home, and they make silvery necklaces and things with everything but emerald. And when you hear someone was a Slytherin in school? No one _says_ anything, but it's always the same look, for a split second, before they remember to hide it."

He was not too solid on his sources for that last one, having only observed his family's reactions to such a thing. James and his Uncle Ron were particularly open with their dislike, the former because he did not care when he was being rude unless his father was around, the latter because when he was being rude he often mistakenly thought he was being funny.

He kicked at a rock. Ana said nothing, but kicked the rock as they drew even with it. They continued like this—playing caveman football, Al thought, with the twitch of a grin—for some time. Ana was lost in thought, watching the rock.

Eventually they came to where the trees met the shore of the lake, and they could go no further in that direction. As they turned around to head back, Ana spoke up.

"I'm sorry, Al. For me, I just knew it'd tougher making friends at school, being in Slytherin. But my family's happy I was Sorted here.

"I was so—pleased," she said. "When you were Sorted here, too. We were already friends, sort of, and it was so unexpected—I was clapping and all of a sudden you were at our table!"

Al gave her a pained smile, recalling the ceremony from the night before.

"This tunnel's bollocks," he said. "Let's just follow the lake."

Ana nodded, and they moved on. Or so he had hoped.

"I am sorry, though," she continued, keeping pace beside him. "I know you really wanted to be in Gryffindor. I know your family really wanted you to be in Gryffindor."

Al felt his facial muscles tightening, and forced a laugh to cover it up.

"I never thought I'd end up there," he said, shaking his head. "I couldn't see it. I was hoping I'd be a Hufflepuff, actually, once I knew I wouldn't make it to Gryffindor. I was only _afraid_ I'd be a Slytherin."

He smiled to let her know he was teasing, and though Ana let the subject pass, she did not seem reassured.

---- ---- ----

They spent the rest of the day outdoors, half-heartedly searching for possible tunnel entrances as they wandering the grounds, returning now and then to check the trees bordering the Forbidden Forest.

Around noon they were completing a circuit of the Quidditch Pitch, and missed lunch. As the sun began to sink toward the western horizon, their stomachs informed them in no uncertain terms of their neglectfulness.

"What exactly did your cousin say about this tunnel, again?" Ana asked, as they finally started for the castle.

"Well—he's not really a cousin," said Al, wondering whether he should broach this particular topic. "He's more of a… god-brother."

Ana was nodding. "And he told you there was a secret tunnel on the grounds that no one else knew about?"

"That not _many_ knew about," said Al.

"Who _does_ know about it, and are they all off having a laugh about now?"

"No! And not that many—a few," he said. He looked at Ana, who was glowing a bit after spending hours out in the sun, and decided this was not the time to mention Teddy. "He told me a boy a few years ahead of him had put a silencing spell on a Burrowing Blowtorch and tunneled from one of the dungeons to a tree not far into the Forbidden Forest." He held up his hands. "That's all he said, he was just telling the story."

She arched a brow, waiting for more.

"He said the boy's name was Tunnler!" Al said, remembering.

Ana stopped, her mouth pinched in a stifled smile.

"What?" she said.

"His name was… Oh," said Al, cottoning on.

"Your god-brother told you a boy named Tunnler tunneled a tunnel, Al?"

"I—sorry?" he said helplessly.

Ana marched past him.

"Albus Potter," she grumbled, which he took to mean she was unhappy with him—but not truly, as he still sensed a smile somewhere nearby.

"Very sorry?" he tried, following beside.

"Merlin," she said, casting her eyes upward.

Al never understood why people did that—Merlin was long dead, so would he not rather be in the opposite direction? Pondering this, he missed what Ana said next.

"Sorry?"

Ana burst out laughing.

"Enough sorrys!" she exclaimed. They had reached the front steps of the Entrance Hall, where they could already smell supper wafting from the Great Hall. "I _said_ so long as I eat in the next five minutes you won't have to bury me by the front door under a headstone saying 'Here lies Ana Dolohov, who died looking for a tunnel that didn't exist'!"

"Right—sorry," said Al, hurrying to pull open the heavy doors.

"Al!" said Ana.

"What? Oh! Sor—" he clapped his hands over his mouth and dashed into the Hall.

---- ---- ----

Sunday dawned misty and gray, though Al had no way of knowing this, deep as he was in the Slytherin dormitories. He managed to wake later than he had the morning before, but the only one up when he drew back his green bed-curtains was Argil, emerging from the steamy bathroom with wet, neatly combed hair.

"Morning," said Al. He ran a hand through his own hair, realizing he probably needed a shower as well—he had not had one since Thursday…

"Good morning," Argil replied. "Though I have no idea if it _is_ a good morning, as there are no windows this far underground."

Thinking of the window in his dad's office, Al said aloud, "I wonder if we could get an enchanted one down here, so it could give us a view of the grounds, or something…"

"And maybe let us know if it's pouring rain outside and we shouldn't put on our best suede shoes!" added Argil, rummaging around in his wardrobe.

Al had no suede shoes, so this was a not an issue. It would be nice though, he thought, to know right away whether it was snowing, or storming, or sunny…

Getting up, he located his toiletries at the bottom of his trunk and entered the bathroom. The large mirror over the sinks was still fogged, and the dark tiles were damp beneath his feet. There were four stalls—two showers, two toilets—and a few urinals at the back. The walls were tiled the same as the floor, glinting darkly in the high-bracketed candlelight.

The overall effect was creepy enough that Al was having second thoughts about the shower. But Argil would probably notice his dry hair if he walked out now. Steeling himself, Al grabbed one of the towels stacked beside the door and hung it outside a shower stall.

It was the fastest shower of his life. There were suds running down his narrow back when he flung the door open and stepped out, wrapping the towel hurriedly around his waist. Next time, he thought, he should perhaps wait until the towel was in place before leaping into the open air. Luckily, he was still the only one there—that he could see, he reminded himself, casting a paranoid glance at the shadows lurking behind him.

Al went to a sink and wiped a section of mirror clear with a forearm. His moisture-warped reflection stared dully as he brushed his teeth. Lowering his toothbrush, he examined his face.

Black, wet hair, plastered in curling tendrils around his skull; thin eyebrows, like his mother's; eyes round and green, like his father's; pointy chin, down which a trail of toothpaste dripped. His skin was still brown from a summer spent outside, taking after his father in that, too—his mother, James and Lily only freckled in the sun.

It was his usual morning face. He looked just the same as he always had, ever since he had grown tall enough to see over the sink at home.

He wondered, though, how others were seeing him. Did he seem different to them now, as a Slytherin? Sneakier? More cunning? Did he look untrustworthy?

Abruptly Al leaned forward and breathed on the glass, and did not look up until he had left the bathroom.

He and Argil quickly completed their morning routines and met Ana in the common room. Danica was waiting with her, and so the four of them proceeded to the Great Hall for Sunday brunch. Al noticed, glancing at the enchanted ceiling, that the day was overcast and dreary.

He was silent all through breakfast, waiting for the post owls to arrive, wondering whether, and a part of him _hoping,_ it was too soon to expect a reply. As the owls streamed into the Hall, he and Ana looked up, scanning the mass of birds swooping overhead. With a lurch, Al spotted Filibert flapping towards him, an envelope tied to her leg.

She landed, daintily, on the edge of the table, raising a claw to Al, as if in greeting, but also to allow him access to his mail. Unobtrusively as possible, he detached the letter and slipped it into his pocket for later, shaking his head slightly to Ana, who was peeking at him curiously as she stirred her porridge.

Filibert, when no further instructions were forthcoming, snatched a piece of sausage from Al's plate and took wing.

"I dunno about this weather, Ana," said Danica, indicating the ceiling. "Looks like it's going to rain any moment."

"Too bad," said Ana. "Al and I found this brilliant little courtyard hidden behind the greenhouses—"

"Any tunnels?" asked Argil. Al stared as he ate his bacon with a fork.

"No," said Ana, heaving a sigh. "We couldn't find it anywhere. Maybe you'd have better luck, though."

She innocently added sugar to her bowl.

"I might," said Argil, thoughtfully. "I'm was always the one finding the right paths when we took that tour of the Transylvanian Forests—"

"You didn't have a guide?" asked Danica.

"We did, but he was dead useless during the day—didn't talk much, insisted on staying in the shade. He was a funny one."

Al stared, searching for some sign that he was joking. The girls were smiling uncertainly. He spotted a twitch at the corner of Argil's mouth, and laughed, pointing.

"You're joking!" said Al, gleefully.

"A bit," said Argil, pleased with Al's reaction. "But I _am_ good at finding things," he added.

"Well, you won't find this," Ana admitted, glancing at Al. She went on to tell the others in greater detail the futility of yesterday's wanderings, and why.

While everyone was distracted, Al drew the letter from his pocket. Carefully opening it under the table, he hunched on the bench and looked down at his father's handwriting:

_Dear Albus,_

_This is my third draft of this letter. I wanted to make myself very clear, and your mother is in a bit of a state at the moment, so she's been no help. I've managed to boil it down to three important points:_

_First, Mum and I love you no matter what. _

_Second, you have nothing to be sorry for. You are who you are, and the Sorting Hat has the sometimes unsettling ability to see exactly that and know what's best for you. The Hat is very old and wise, and I trust its decision completely. I also trust __you__ completely, and though you find your new House scary, I know you'll face this like a Potter. _

_Third, please be careful. I know things have changed since we were in school, but a few students may not welcome your placement there. You're a smart boy, you'll know whom to steer clear of._

_Keep us up to date, or your mother will go spare. And remember, you have your cousins and brother, should you need someone to talk to._

_Love always,_

_Dad_

Al gazed blankly at the parchment, not quite sure what to think. It was not the glowing reassurance he had hoped for, but nor was it the utter condemnation he had half-expected, what his James voice had predicted.

…_Mum and I love you no matter what…_

He had never thought they would _stop_ loving him, even if he were a Slytherin—they were his parents—yet his father's pre-emptive statement was having the opposite effect of what he had probably intended.

It was as if they thought _Al_ believed his parents could stop loving him, assumed that would be his primary fear…

And Al had never once in his letter asked if they still loved him. He thought that was a given.

_...in a bit of a state…your mother will go spare…_

…Because of him?

_Uh, yeah, _said his James voice. _Mum's going mad because 'you are who you are.' Good job, Alie!_

But…what did Dad want him to do? He told him to 'face this like a Potter,' and to 'be careful'—two basically contradictory statements. Did they expect him to hate it in Slytherin, and to bear to bravely, like the Gryffindor they wanted him to be? Or did they want to keep his head down like the slinking Slytherin they now knew him to be?

_Probably the last, as it deserved its own point…,_ mused his James voice.

Just shut-up, thought Al furiously. He was being stupid. They loved him—they obviously were not ecstatic about his Sorting—but they loved him, wanted him to be all right. His dad trusted the Hat, and he would too.

The Hat knew best.

"Al? You ready?" asked Danica.

"Yeah, yup," he said, shoving the letter back in his pocket.

---- ---- ---- ----

They got lost briefly on their way back to the common room, but Argil, it turned out, _was_ good at choosing correct paths. They left the navigation to him, and soon found themselves in front of a promising blank wall.

Back in his dormitory, Paul and Matthias were lounging around in their pajamas, eating Chocolate Frogs for breakfast. The wrappers lay discarded all about the room, the Famous Wizards Cards with them.

"Not interested in the Challenge?" said Argil, following through the door. Al detected a note of derision at the last word.

"Not interested in riddles," Matthias said. Paul shrugged, gnawing on a Frog's head.

Al did not know what to make of Matthias Bulstrode and Paul Polkiss. They seemed to have latched onto each other, odd pair though they made. Matthias was wide and hulking for an eleven year old, easily the biggest of the first year boys, while Paul was wiry and quiet, observing everything with wary, shadowed eyes.

"That so-called Challenge is just a cheap marketing trick," Argil was telling them. "My father says so."

The boys chewed their chocolate.

"…How does he know?" asked Matthias, when it became apparent Argil was waiting for a response.

"He knows the makers!"

"Well, bully for him," said Matthias, unwrapping another Frog.

"Where's Scor?" asked Al.

"Sleeping Beauty's still in bed," said Paul, snickering.

"He's still _asleep_?" said Argil, shocked. "It's past twelve!"

"Sleeping Beauty is awake, and can hear you," said a grumpy voice from the far bed.

"You hungry?" called Matthias. "We've got chocolate out here, but brunch's over."

"I _know_ that, I said I can hear you," Scor mumbled. "And no _thank_ you."

Matthias shrugged. "More for us," he said, and tossed another Frog to Paul.

"I'll have one," said Argil.

"You said these were cheap tricks!" said Matthias, even as he lobbed a Frog.

Argil caught it with both hands.

"The Challenge is a cheap trick; the chocolate is chocolate," he said, sagely.

As Argil, Matthias and Paul strove to make a dent in the mountain of Chocolate Frogs on Matthias' bed, Al walked over to his own, a part of him wishing the other boys would offer one to him.

Maybe they just forgot, he told himself. He was full from brunch, and would have declined, anyway, but it would have been nice to be asked.

He climbed up onto his bed, thinking he would have a nap—he had not slept well the past two nights. The parchment crumpled in his pocket as Al lay down, not bothering to close the bed hangings. He dozed off to the sound of his dorm-mates laughing over the pile of candy across the room.

He woke—not long after, as his clock read 1:17—to an empty dormitory. Or so he thought, until he heard a wardrobe closing to his left. He looked around, bleary-eyed, to see Scor standing beside the neighboring bed, doing up the buttons of his robe.

"Father will be disappointed if I sleep through my first few days at Hogwarts," he said ruefully, when he noticed Al watching.

"Mine too," he said, pushing himself to a sitting position.

As Al slid off the bed, Scor sat on the edge of his trunk to put on his shoes. The trunk was made of a dark wood with polished metal trim and locks, the initials _S.L.I.M. _carved into the lid.

"Slim," Al said with a chuckle, nodding to the letters when Scor glanced around.

"Oh—yeah," he said, tracing the carvings briefly with one finger. He stood and approached Al's trunk. Taking in the gold-leaf lettering on the side, he laughed. "No way."

"What?" said Al, looking down at the trunk by his feet.

"Asp," said Scor, still eying the initials, and raised an eyebrow. "Do you know what an asp is, Albus Severus Potter?"

A bit embarrassed, Al shook his head. Scor grinned at his bewilderment.

"Don't feel bad, I only know because I went through a 'snake phase,' my mother called it, when I was nine. It only lasted a few months, 'til I moved on to dragons, which is when I learned what my father's name means—and that was useful, 'cause then I called him Draggy whenever he called me Scorpius—"

"What does 'asp' mean?" Al interrupted, waving an arm as though to push aside the superfluous noise.

"Right, yeah! It's another word for viper… the Egyptian cobra, as well. Actually, it's an old fashioned name for pretty much any venomous snake. You—your truck fits right in."

Al was surprised to feel a swell of dismay at Scor's self-correction.

"It's _my_ trunk," he pointed out.

Scor was watching him knowingly.

"True," he said. "So… _you_ fit right in?"

Annoyingly, Al's feeling of dismay failed to dissipate. What was wrong with him? Did he want to belong here or not?

"We'll see," he said, looking down at his initials. They were in gold, but he thought maybe he should change them to silver… the spell should not be too difficult.

_A.S.P._

"Cooler than Slim, at least," said Scor. "Hey, you up for a game of Exploding Snap? My mum got me a brand new deck—"

Al nodded, but Scor had already turned away to rummage in his bedside table.

They played until supper, and Scor won every round but the last. Al tried not to let the sudden, charitable expression on Scor's face spoil his victory.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Al had set his alarm clock for seven o'clock on Monday morning, and woke with a leisurely hour to get ready for his first day of classes. He washed and dressed, fastened his watch around his wrist, tied his shoes and repeatedly tried, with minimal results, to flatten a cowlick that had sprung up overnight.

Realizing he had no idea which textbooks he would need after breakfast, Al gathered them all, as well as his potions kit, and crammed them into his bag amongst quills and parchment. That way, he figured, he would not have to run back to the dormitory upon receiving his schedule.

By now Argil, Matthias and Paul were all up and sluggishly moving about, pulling on robes and rubbing sleep out of their eyes. Thinking himself ready for the day, Al double-checked the area around his bed, making sure he had everything: books, potions ingredients—should he bring his cauldron…? No, that would be too cumbersome—quill, spare quills, parchment.

What had he forgotten?

Ink! He retrieved a brand new bottle from his bedside table and managed to wedge it into his bookbag.

The other boys were beginning to drift toward the common room, but as Al made to follow that same feeling returned—the insistent, niggling sense that he was leaving something behind…

Almost at the door, Al swung around to face the deserted room, his eyes falling on the bed to the far right, where a mattress had just creaked.

"Scor?" said Al, incredulous. Starting for the bed, the only one in the dormitory whose hangings were closed, he tried again: "Scor?"

Somewhere in the bed, Scor mumbled. Al resisted rolling his eyes—not that Scor could have seen him anyway, considering he was still _asleep_.

"Scor!"

No reply, but the ensuing silence was a bit too complete for Al's liking—he had the infuriating impression Scor was holding his breath, waiting for Al to go away.

"SCORPIUS MALFOY!"

A shrill cry emitted from the bed: "N-o!"

"Scor, it's eight o'clock already! If you don't get up, you'll miss breakfast—"

"I don _do_ breakfess…" Scor slurred. "Go a_way_…" There was a rustling of bedcovers.

"But—"

"Go _way_!"

Al gave up. He turned back towards the door, hoping Ana had not left without him.

"…Al?" murmured Scor.

"What?" he said.

"…Meechu inna Gray Hall."

Despite himself, Al grinned. "What if you get lost?"

Scor groaned. "Then I _won_ meechu inna Gray Hall."

"All right," said Al, shaking his head, and left for the common room.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

The Great Hall was packed with students, some chattering excitedly, others barely conscious over their bowls. Glancing down the long room, Al saw that the same held true for many of the teachers.

He and Ana headed for the Slytherin table, where they spotted Argil making uneasy conversation with Abbey Vaisey, who from her blank expression, was not particularly interested in what he was saying.

Across from Argil, Danica motioned for Al and Ana to sit at her bench. "Crowburn's just started handing out schedules," she said, pointing a spindly finger at the far end of the table.

"Who?" said Al, leaning out from his bench for a better view. A short, brown-haired wizard with two large stacks of parchment in his arms was slowly making his way towards them.

"Professor Crowburn," said Danica. "Our Head of House. He teaches… something? I can't remember."

"Potions?" asked Al, thinking of Severus Snape.

"Uh… no," said Danica, with an embarrassed laugh. "My dad teaches that."

"What?" said Ana. "Your dad's a professor?"

Danica nodded at her plate. "Potions Master. He just started here last year, so I—" she lowered her voice, glancing at the opposite bench, where Argil was just as unsuccessfully trying to talk to the girl next to Abbey. "So I could come," she said shortly.

"Oh," said Ana, and summoned a smile. "Well, good! That you're… here."

"Yeah," said Danica, giving a slight smile in return.

Crowburn had just reached the cluster of first years.

"Sarah-May Davis," he said.

"Present!" exclaimed the girl next to Abbey, cutting Argil off mid-sentence.

"This isn't a roll call, Miss Davis," said Professor Crowburn tiredly, holding out her schedule and map. "Albus Potter."

Not sure how he should respond, Al raised a hand.

Crowburn looked down at him for a moment before extending the parchment. He was was middle-aged, and had a straight, prominent nose. "Nice and quiet, Mr. Potter?"

Al stared at him, then nodded.

Crowburn expelled a laugh, and returned the gesture. "The way I like my students. Argiletum Blotts."

And he went on passing out schedules. Al studied his own, a bit perturbed by his professor's behavior.

"Double Charms, first thing," Ana commented.

"Scorpius Malfoy." said Professor Crowburn. He glanced around, then tried again: "Scorpius Malfoy?"

Al wondered if he should speak up, say Scor was running late—or rather, _sleeping_ late—but there was no need. Crowburn raised an eyebrow and laid Scor's schedule by the sausage tray.

"I'm sure one of his kindly classmates will ensure he gets his," he said, and chuckling to himself, he continued down the table.

"So, I'm glad our Head of House isn't insane or anything," said Sarah-May, when he was out of earshot. Al suspected she was just miffed about the roll call comment.

"Don't be so sure," said Argil seriously, missing the sarcasm. "He was in school a year ahead of my father—says they called him Crazy Crowburn, Crackpot Corbin, that kind of thing."

"How long's he been teaching?" asked Al.

"Bit after Voldemort's Fall, I reckon," said Argil, shrugging. "He was abroad during the sticky years."

"Like your parents," said Al, more sharply than he had intended.

"My parents are_always_ abroad," said Argil, holding up his hands defensively.

"So, Double Charms, first thing," Ana repeated.

"With Ravenclaw," said Danica, following Ana's lead.

After an awkward pause, Abbey piped in: "I've never heard of this bloke, though." She pointed at the professor's name printed below the subject. "M. Stebbins?"

"Could be a woman," said Ana.

As the others forcedly discussed the identity of M. Stebbins, Al looked over the rest of his schedule. After lunch, they had Herbology—he felt a thrill of relief at seeing a familiar face in Professor Longbottom—and then Astronomy, with pointy Professor Sinistra. He was disappointed that they did not have Transfiguration until Wednesday… taught by a W. Terwit…

As the clock above the double doors inched its way past half eight, the Hall began to steadily empty, the students gathering their bags and heading off for their first class of the new term.

Abbey and Sarah-May soon left, Argil trailing along after them, and then Matthias and Paul, once Matthias had finished his fourth serving of hash browns.

"We should probably go, too," said Danica, pushing away her plate. They clambered off the bench, Al grabbing Scor's schedule and map as he went.

In the Great Hall, he stopped by the grand staircase. "You two go on, I told Scor I'd wait for him."

"You sure?" said Ana. At Al's nod, she started up the stairs. "All right, then. But don't wait for too long—it's his own fault if he doesn't get up in time."

"I'm giving him five minutes," said Al, and settled on the first step, bookbag in his lap.

Students were still exiting the Great Hall, though none Al recognized. He almost wished a cousin would walk through the double doors, especially Fred, his favorite cousin by far. He was almost certain Fred would not think differently of him for being a Slytherin—or Iggy, either, considering Iggs was the only cousin sorted into Ravenclaw…

Where was Scor?

Al checked his watch—quarter 'til. He had fifteen minutes to make it to Charms, assuming he could find the classroom on the first try. Should he just go? He figured it was the Slytherin thing to do. But what if Scor _had_ gotten lost? Or what if he was on his way, and arrived in the deserted Great Hall with no schedule, no map, no idea where to go? And Al had said he would meet him… but Scor was the one failing to appear.

He could just leave the schedule and map on the step, and hope Scor would see them when he showed up…

Ten minutes later, the Entrance Hall was empty, and Al was fuming. Was the stupid layabout still asleep? Had he any intention of getting up? He apparently did not care in the least that he had made Al hang around for a quarter of an hour, made him late for his first class, probably.

Growling to himself, Al snatched up his bookbag. To hell with Scor, he could sleep until his prince came to kiss him awake, or whatever he was waiting for. Al took the stairs two at a time and, checking the map periodically, ran as fast as he could to the third floor Charms corridor.

He was panting, clutching a stitch in his side, and _knew_ he was red in the face, when he cracked open the door marked Charms 1.

"…do not tolerate is tardiness, which will be met with immediate—"

Al sidled into the classroom.

"—detention," finished the wizard by the front desk, grimacing as he caught sight of Al. "What horrible timing—Mr. Potter, I presume. Now I've got no choice, have I?"

Al's stomach plunged to the floor.

The wizard—Professor Stebbins—sighed, though Al had given no response. "Very well, then. Detention, Mr. Potter. To be served sometime before the end of the week. Please take a seat next to Mr. Pluza. Quickly, quickly!"

Al hurried to only desk with an empty seat, mercifully nearby in the front row. As he was about to sit, he risked a glance around the room, and froze.

Scor was lounging in the back row, sharing a desk with Argil. He was staring at Al, stricken, but Al barely noticed this, as a torrent of outrage surged in his chest. He sank into his seat with a thud, faced forward, and hoped his expression had not twisted into something too terrible.

Professor Stebbins ended his speech, the sound of creasing parchment and the unscrewing of inkbottles filling the room. Al dug in his bag for his own note-taking implements, wondering whether he should even bother—his good first impression with Stebbins was blown, and according to Fred, those were most important with teachers during the first week.

_Now Stebbins will pass it on to the other teachers_, said his James voice. Al gripped his quill and wrote the date at the top of his parchment. _He'll be saying, 'Wouldn't you know, not five minutes into class I was handing out detention—to Al Potter, of course, the surprise Slytherin—'_

Al forced himself to focus on the professor. He had just written 'Perpello' on the board with a flick of his wand, and was explaining the differences between Push, Slide, and Shift charms, which they would be covering in the first two weeks. Al took careful notes, mainly as a distraction from his own mind. He did not look once at Pluza, nor at Stebbins, unless he heard him spelling something onto the board, and he certainly did not look behind him, where he would see Scorpius effing Malfoy sitting, comfortable and well rested.

As the second, practical portion of the class rolled around, they put away quill and ink and drew out their wands. And, though he had spent the past hour thinking furious thoughts whenever Stebbins paused for breath, Al felt a bit excited at this opportunity to perform real, official magic.

"Er…" said Pluza, staring perplexedly at their textbooks, which they had been set to push several centimeters across the table. Looking a bit aimless, he waved his wand, and tried, "Per…pello?"

Al rolled his eyes. Just his luck—paired with the only clueless Ravenclaw in the school.

Pluza jabbed his wand at the book, and stressed the second syllable: "Per_pell_o!"

"You're doing it wrong," said Al.

"Obviously," muttered Pluza, embarrassed, but Al was not in the proper frame of mind for sympathy.

"You wave your wand after or during the incantation," he said. "Never _before_."

"How—how do you know?" asked Pluza resentfully.

"How is it you_ don't_ know? Have you ever seen a wizard wave his wand _before_ saying the spell?"

"Uh…"

"It's like this," said Al impatiently. He pointed his wand at his own textbook, taking a moment to recall what Stebbins had done during his demonstration, when he had charmed his desk to push itself away. "Perpello," he said clearly, flicking his wand to the right.

His charms book skittered towards Pluza's. The other boy's eyes widened.

"Perpello," said Pluza, mimicking Al's wand-motion. His textbook stuttered a centimeter to the side. "It moved!"

"Well done," said Al dully.

"Thanks, Potter. And hey, don't kick yourself too badly 'bout the detention, we're all late sometimes."

Al stared at him, not much won over. He had not been _late_; he had been unfairly detained.

"Right," said Pluza, turning away. "Well, guess we should just… practice this, then…"

"Yeah," Al mumbled.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

When Stebbins dismissed the class for lunch, Al wedged his book under his arm, slung his weighty bag over his shoulder and was out the door before anyone else had stood.

He just—he did not want to speak to any of them. Both Ana and Danica had known, and yet it seemed they had said nothing when class started and he was missing. And _Scor_, the self-centered git, had not bothered to speak up, maybe claim some responsibility as the _reason_ for Al's lateness. They were such—_Slytherins_.

Someone called his name, but the corridor was beginning to crowd with students as every class let out, and Al did not stop.

Descending the grand staircase, he winced at a sharp pain between his shoulder blades, and shifted his bookbag to the other shoulder. Bringing every textbook, plus his potions kit, had not been one of his better ideas. Now that he had time, perhaps he should head back to the dormitory to unload the unnecessary weight… the detour had the added bonus of avoiding his housemates for a while longer.

"AL!"

Scor had reached the top of the stairs. Al darted in front of an older student and hurried to the dungeon stairwell.

The common room and dormitory were deserted, as he expected. He pried the books from his bag and set them back in his trunk, taking his time, as he had done that morning when he packed them in. Sorting the crumpled pieces of parchment, he found Scor's schedule and map, and resisted the urge the tear them up. Instead, taking a deep breath, he walked the short distance to Scor's bedside table, depositing them amongst the assorted junk that had already accumulated there.

But Scor was still a stupid git.

Al could still make it to lunch if he ran, but he had had quite enough running for one day, he thought, stealing a Chocolate Frog off Matthias' nightstand. As he ate, he slid _100,000 Magical Herbs & Fungi_ and _Starter Astronomy_ into his bag, then settled back against his trunk and fished the Famous Wizards Card out of its wrapper.

Andros the Invincible was rolling his round shield along the ground from hand to hand, whistling an ancient tune. Al had no trouble believing Andros could have produced a patronus the size of a giant—the man himself was about as tall as Hagrid.

"Excuse me, Andros?"

Andros ceased his whistling and looked up, but went on rolling his shield back and forth, past one knee, then the other.

"I'd like to hear the riddle," said Al, shifting a bit under the Greek's unblinking gaze.

"Ah." The shield rolled to the right, rolled to the left. Finally, his mouth awkwardly forming the foreign sounds, he said: "Has a mouth… but does not speak. Has a bed but never… sleeps."

Does not speak and never sleeps? Nothing human, then…

"Thanks," said Al.

"_Ekhe_," replied Andros with a nod.

Al checked his watch, figuring he would leave now and arrive at Herbology early—not that he needed to make a good impression with Professor Longbottom, who he had known since before he could remember. He slipped Andros the Invincible in his pocket and set off, marveling at the relative lightness of his bookbag.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

He entered Greenhouse 1 a good ten minutes before the start of class. Professor Longbottom was busy counting a pile of empty flowerpots on a side table. Looking around as Al swung his bookbag onto one of the long work desks, his kind face broke into a wide smile.

"Afternoon, Al!"

Al grinned back. He could not help it—Professor Longbottom's smiles were more infectious than dragon pox. "Hi, Professor Longbottom." Knowing James would never do it, he added: "Erm, Mum and Dad send their love."

He heard a stifled snigger, and turned to see Peter Bones perched on a stool in the back row. Next to him sat a round, sandy-haired boy, a hand clapped over his mouth. Al felt his face flush.

Longbottom sent the two Hufflepuffs a mock-reproving frown.

"Bones, Smith," he said. "I see your parents haven't sent me any love. I'll remember that, come marking time."

Al laughed as the other boys' eyes widened, and the professor turned back to him.

"You may give your mum and dad my love and thanks, in return," he said sincerely.

Al nodded, climbing up onto a stool. As Professor Longbottom went on preparing for his lesson, Al took out Andros the Invincible. Pushing himself slowly round on the swivel seat, he pondered the riddle.

…_has a bed…_

He doubted the riddle referred to a person, so probably not a bed like his own…

What other beds were there? Flowerbeds, he thought, his eyes flitting around the greenhouse. Bedrock, he considered, glancing at the dirt floor.

…_has a mouth…_

But flowers and rocks did not have mouths, did they? Flowers drank through their roots, breathed through their leaves; rocks only had mouths if a man carved them.

Caves had mouths, he realized, picturing the cave in the cliff through which the first years had been ferried on the wide stream…

He stopped spinning. Was that the answer?

Water could be said to lie on a bed—there was the bed of the ocean, bed of the lake. He had never heard of oceans or lakes having mouths, though. Streams did, he supposed, but streams were tiny and usually went unmentioned… the more common phrase was 'mouth of a—'

Al held up the card. "River," he said.

"Eh?" Andros grunted, absorbed in untangling his beard.

"The answer is river," Al repeated.

"_Nai, nai_," said Andros, shaking his beard up and down in agreement. Al allowed himself a satisfied smirk, and was about to return Andros to his pocket when someone spoke up behind him.

"Aren't you going to ask for the Word, then?"

It was the sandy-haired boy. Both he and Peter were staring at him incredulously.

"Oh—uh… I forgot." To be honest, he did not much care about the Challenge—he just liked riddles. "Sorry… Andros?" The Greek had moved on to the hair on his head. "Could I have the Word and the name of the next card?"

"_Dêpou_," said Andros, and cleared his throat. "Terr-ible. Gwenog Jones." Out of the corner of his eye, Al saw Peter and the other boy reaching for their quills.

"Thank you," said Al.

"_Kharis soi_," said Andros, staring up at him.

"Er…"

Andros held up a palm. "Thank you." He held up the other. "_Kharis soi_."

"Oh!" said Al, catching on. "Right—kharis soi." Appeased, Andros returned his attention to his hair. Al put the card back in his pocket.

"Hope you don't mind that we overheard," said Peter. "'Cause that's one less for me to solve!"

"No, I don't care," said Al, glancing around. Other students were filing into the greenhouse through the open glass door.

"This is Archie Smith, by the way," said Peter, motioning to the boy beside him.

"Hey," said Archie.

As Al nodded, Ana and Danica joined him at the worktable. They made to put their bags next to his, but hesitated.

"Go on," said Al. His anger had passed, and he was not inclined to dredge it up again. "Really, I'm fine."

"You sure?" said Ana, clambering onto a stool. "You missed lunch…"

"I had to drop some things off in the dorm," he said, and left it at that.

"Nicked you a roll, in case you're hungry," said Danica, holding out a bulging napkin. He took it, feeling a bit foolish for his internal tirade.

"…Thanks."

"All right—class!" said Professor Longbottom. "Let's get started, shall we?"

The greenhouse fell quiet.

"Welcome to First Year Herbology. I am Professor Longbottom, and I will be guiding your study of all manner of magical flora for the next six years, tap of wand—" He and about the half the class tapped the base of their wands on the table. "—seven, should you choose to pursue Herbology in your N.E.W.T.s.

"We'll begin with the basics, covering both magical and mundane plants, many of which you'll encounter in Potions class. Weather permitting, I'll also take you on what I like to call Tree Tours, where we will learn which trees are used for wandmaking.

"Now, I'm required to take a roll call, but that's fine—easiest way of meeting all of _you_, so—" He glanced down at the parchment on his desk. "Isidore Adler?"

Longbottom worked his way down the list, looking up as each student confirmed his or her presence. He did not pause a second when he came to Dolohov—Al was watching, wondering how the former D.A. member would react—though he hit a snag after calling for Malfoy.

"Scorpius Malfoy," he said again, looking around the room. Al did the same. He had not even noticed Scor was missing… "Well, let's hope he finds us soon."

Catching Ana's eye, Al furrowed his brow, but she just shrugged.

Longbottom checked off Daisy Zeller with a flourish, then strode to a worktable at the center of the room. No one had sat there, because the entire surface was covered in what looked to be small cacti, only instead of spines they had dark, angry boils. Al had no idea was sort of plants they were, but he could guess what the professor was going to have them do: each of the plants were set in flimsy plastic containers, and a mountain of empty ceramic pots lay on a neighboring table.

"If you would all look over here, please," said Longbottom. "I want to introduce you to one of my favorite plants, the _Mimbulus_—" He broke off, staring over the students' heads at the greenhouse door. "Yes?"

The entire class turned. Scor was standing in the doorway, pink faced and breathing heavily.

"I—I'm late, Professor," he said. There was a pause, filled only by Scor's labored breaths.

"Yes," said Longbottom. "If you're Scorpius Malfoy, then I'm afraid you are." Scor swallowed, and did not move.

Longbottom squinted at him quizzically. "If you're not too winded," he said. "Please find a seat, we're about to begin the lesson…"

Though politely phrased, Al could tell the professor was displeased, or perhaps just disappointed. What did Scor think he was doing?

Longbottom resumed his lecture, detailing the many magical properties of the_Mimbulus Mimbletonia_, its foul-smelling defense mechanisms, what changes one should observe in well-cared-for specimens…

"These samples are all very young, of course, and badly in need of repotting—" He smiled around at his students. "—which is where you come in. We have empty pots over here, lovely compost and loam in the bins over there… Just mind the boils! As I said, they're all fully equipped with Stinksap, and at this stage they're quite sensitive."

He circled the greenhouse as the students got to work, giving them tips, cautioning those about to blunder onto boils. Al had lost track of the professor, concentrating on the plant before him. The things were rather grotesque, their boils throbbing—

"Mr. Malfoy!" said Professor Longbottom sharply. Al looked round and saw Scor holding his plant by the roots so that the body was hanging upside down. "These specimens are infants. Please handle them with a bit more care than that."

Scor raised his eyebrows. "I'm so sorry, Professor," he said, the picture of innocence. With exaggerated attentiveness, he turned the plant rightside up and worshipfully set it into a ceramic pot. Longbottom frowned, but said nothing, going to the next table on his rounds.

"Well done, Miss Gordon. You're plant looks very comfortable."

The rest of the class went back to their repotting, but Al was glaring at Scor, outraged on the professor's behalf. What was his problem? Longbottom was probably the nicest teacher in all of Hogwarts, who had already let Scor's tardiness slide, and Scor, the ungrateful sod, was giving him cheek! Al gave a snort of disgust, returning to his plant.

He was carefully lifting his fourth _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_ from its plastic container, however, when a third disturbance rose above the quiet talk and_ thunks_ of the working students.

"Oh yeah, Bones?" yelled Scor. "'Cause I've been meaning to tell you—these Mimblewhatsits look a bit like your face."

"Say that again, Malfoy!" shouted Peter, hopping off his stool. This was not the most intimidating of moves, as the stool was about the height of his chest.

"All right," said Scor, nodding agreeably. "These Mimble—"

"That's quite enough!" interrupted Professor Longbottom, who had rushed to stand between the boys. "You will return to you seat, Mr. Bones. Mr. Malfoy, you will refrain from comparing the _Mimbulus Mimbletonia _to a classmate's face and refer to the plant by its proper name. Five points each from Hufflepuff and Slytherin."

Scor stared at Longbottom disbelievingly, then turned away, muttering: "Don't see how the plant cares what I call it." He drew out his wand. "Do you, you stupid—"

"Scor, don't!" yelled Al, but too late—Scor gave the plant a vicious jab with his wand, and then Al knew nothing but darkness and the stench of rotten eggs.

"Detention, Mr. Malfoy," said Professor Longbottom tightly. Wiping his eyes, Al saw the entire class splattered with dark, glutinous, foul-smelling sap. The greenhouse walls were a muddy brown, the substance oozing down the sides in the afternoon sun.

Scor's table had got the brunt of it—Matthias and Paul were glowering, pawing the goo from their faces. Scor looked like a bog monster, rigid under his repulsive coating—but as he mopped his face with a corner of his robe, Al could have sworn he was… smirking.

With a wave of his wand, Longbottom spelled away most of the Stinksap, but the smell lingered, along with a general, seeping sense of filth. He ended class several minutes early, as it was obvious their minds were no longer on their tasks.

Al gave the professor an apologetic wave as he left.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

The rest of the week passed uneventfully, though for a while no one spoke to Scor. But as the house elves managed to get the worst of the stink out of their clothes and bags, so too did their silent treatment dissipate, and after a few days tensions had eased amongst the first year Slytherins.

Excluding Al, who had more reasons for shunning Scor than some vile-smelling clothes. He was still avoiding his housemate when he received an owl Friday morning, instructing him to report to Mr. Filch in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock that evening for his detention.

It was not the best way to start the day, but Al's mood improved when he remembered they had Double Defense Against the Dark Arts that morning, taught by their Head of House, Professor Crowburn. Their first class with him had been on Tuesday, and Al did not care what Argil's father had to say about it—Al liked Crowburn, almost as much as Professor Longbottom. He did not know why.

The professor was a prickly fellow, and had a way of giving his students the sense they were always a step behind him. He had opened Tuesday's class with a question—_Why is this class necessary?_ And for the next hour and half, Crowburn doing nothing more than calling on whoever raised their hand, the class had discussed whether, after nearly twenty years of peace in wizarding Britain, with the Ministry regulating all remotely dangerous aspects of the wizarding world, an extensive knowledge of Defense was required.

A few Gryffindors had been bold enough to suggest that it was _not_ necessary, implying that the class only served to pique nefarious interests of those curious about the Dark Arts themselves. Crowburn had simply gazed from behind his desk, waiting for contrary opinions to rise. Halfway through, he had murmured, "I do hope you'll all taking notes…"

A flurrying of parchment and sudden scratching of quills had followed, and Al spotted a twitch at the corner of Crowburn's mouth. At one point, Al had tentatively raised a hand, having been mulling something over for some time.

"I suppose," he had said. "It comes down to how prepared you'd want to be, or want your family or friends to be, when the stuff happens that no one expects to happen—the random things that no one predicts or even likes thinking about, that still happen all the time, because that's life…" He trailed off, losing his train of thought.

Crowburn had spoken up for the first time since his note-taking comment, looking vaguely amused. "Vague, but well said. Perhaps an example of this 'stuff that no one expects to happen?'"

"Er…" said Al, mind abruptly blank.

A Gryffindor boy called Cauldwell had raised his hand, saying something about a bloke who had been attacked by a Lethifold while on holiday in South Africa, and the debate moved on. Al sort of wished he brain would stop freezing whenever Crowburn looked at him, but it had been a fun class. He wondered what he would have them do today—surely they would not spend both periods just _talking_…

He and Ana entered the first floor classroom to find most of the Gryffindors already there. They waved to Rose, who smiled at them from the front row, and chose seats towards the middle. Ana, he had realized throughout the week, preferred sitting where she was least likely to be noticed.

Crowburn watching from his desk, the room filled with students. As nine o'clock neared, Al waited for him to call for order, but Crowburn remained silent. Classes all around the school were beginning, and still the professor said nothing, staring at them all expectantly.

"Is he… _waiting_ for us to shut up?" Al whispered to Ana.

She nodded slowly. "I…think so."

One by one, the students noticed this as well, and fell quiet, looking a bit embarrassed for the poor fools still chattering in the back of the room. Al was fairly certain Scor was one of them, but did not glance round to see. Eventually, even they caught on.

The stillness complete, Crowburn leaned back in his chair. Eyes on the desk before him, he said: "You find yourself walking through unknown woods late at night, and your path forks. To the left the way is worn, and you think you see a light in the distance. To the right the way is wild, overgrown, the path barely visible. The one thing you know is that both paths lead to the same place. Which do you choose?"

Al wrote the date on his parchment, smothering a grin. Cauldwell raised his hand.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," said Crowburn. "McDonald?"

"The left way, of course," said the girl next to Rose. "It's the way others have gone, and the light could mean it's where people_are_."

"Vaisey?"

"But that's obviously a trap!" said Abbey. "You're never supposed to choose the one that seems right in this kind of thing—the scary way is always the way you should have gone, in the end."

"Cauldwell?"

"Based on _wha_t?" Cauldwell asked Abbey. "Stories you've read? Real life stuff doesn't always have annoying twists like that."

And they were off, discussing the best course of action, the possible ramifications of choosing one path over the other—they _were_ in Defense Against the Dark Arts, so these speculations ranged toward the nightmarish. All the while, Crowburn watched, calling on raised hands and obliquely answering any clarifying questions.

"Is it a full moon?"

"You don't know."

Whenever a new point was brought up, he directed his wand over his shoulder, spelling the comment onto one of the two growing lists on the chalkboard, one labeled '_Well Traveled,'_ the other '_Less Traveled_.'

Al struggled to take notes, trying to keep up with the lists on the board. Opinions varied around the room, regardless of House, which he found rather interesting—he had expected the Slytherins and Gryffindors to gravitate towards opposing choices, on principle if nothing else.

But the left path was drawing support from both. Some Gryffindors, including Rose, said you should trust appearances and deal with the consequences if they arose; some Slytherins, like Paul and Matthias, said you could go the easier way until things got dodgy, at which point you could always double back.

Gryffindors in favor of the right-hand path said so long you had the stones and stayed on the alert, you would be fine. Slytherins in favor of the less traveled path, among them Abbey and Scor, said so long as you had your _wand_ and stayed on the alert, you would be fine.

Near the end of first period, a tiny Gryffindor girl named Creevey raised her hand and jokingly admitted she would sit down at the fork and cry. Her confession elicited a few chuckles of agreement.

Argil said he would only know if were he actually there, and go with his gut. From anyone else, Al would have thought the comment daft. He and Ana glanced at each other knowingly, nodding in approval of Argil's plan.

As time wore on, almost every student had contributed to one of the lists—some to both, switching back and forth between left path and right, their opinion swaying with the debate. An idea had begun to form in Al's mind, but he was uncertain whether he should say it aloud. What if Crowburn asked him a question and he froze again?

He forced his hand up.

"Potter?"

"What—what if you chose neither? I mean, what if you just continued straight, made your own path? 'Cause both paths lead to the same place, so somewhere they must come together again, and if you're making your own between them, you'll know if either of them suddenly turn right or left or something…?"

No! he thought, feeling his next sentence slipping away. What had he wanted to say? There had been more…

"Oh!" he said. "And it's like what we were talking about on Tuesday—where the prepared wizard who's learned in Defense should be able to handle anything, so it doesn't really matter which path he chooses, anyway."

Crowburn looked as though he very much wished to smile. Al wondered what was stopping him. The professor aimed his wand to the side of the two lists, casting a quote onto the board:

_Where the sagacious steps, there the road lies._

—_Salazar Slytherin/Godric Gryffindor_

Al… had no idea what that meant.

"But, Professor, why did you put both their names?" asked Rose. "They both said it?"

"The origin of the quote is disputed," said Crowburn, still looking at Al. "There are conflicting accounts, some attributing the line to Slytherin, others to Gryffindor. Understandable, really—the two were very close, in the beginning."

Not really knowing what _that_ meant either, Al copied down the quote.

"Oh, and Potter?" said Crowburn, almost as an afterthought. "Five points to Slytherin."

Al felt a warm glow deep in his chest.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Hufflepuffs were funny, he thought, examining the Famous Wizards Cards on his desk. From where he stood, they were not so much hardworking as able to discern how best to get the job done and act accordingly.

So if, say, there were a student rather good with riddles who appeared disinclined to reap the benefits of solving said riddles, Hufflepuffs were not above flocking to the aforementioned student for 'assistance.'

Which is why on Tuesday, during their first History of Magic class, Archie Smith had poked Al's shoulder and passed him a folded note with Xavier Rastick stowed in the crease. Xavier had coyly whispered the riddle in Al's ear, and Al had spent the period lost in the thought. When class had at last been dismissed that morning, Al handed the card back to Smith, saying, "Try cloud."

Smith did so, and Xavier had laughed delightedly, clapping his hands. "Oh, very good! Right—you're Word is 'the,' and you're next card is Glenda Chittock."

"Thanks," Smith had said, scribbling it down. "Hey, cheers, Al. See you later, yeah?"

Come Friday, word had spread throughout the Hufflepuffs, and Al had two cards he was expected to solve by the end of the period. Lucky for him, one was another Andros the Invincible. Writing the answer on the other side of the note, he returned it to Anthony Edwards, who seemed shocked to be getting it back so soon. At the front of the room, Binns droned on, either unaware of or unconcerned with the exchanges taking place in the back row.

The other card was proving more difficult. Mirabella Plunkett had giggled and quietly sang the riddle in his ear, but it was so long that he had her say it again, slowly, so he could write it down:

_Make three fourths of a cross,  _

_And a circle complete;  _

_And let two semicircles  _

_On a perpendicular meet;  _

_Next add a triangle_

_That stands on two feet;  _

_Next two semicircles,  _

_And a circle complete._

It was a list of instructions, fairly straightforward—or it would be, had Al any idea what 'three fourths of a cross' was. 'Perpendicular' sounded like something he should know, but he was a bit foggy on its specific meaning.

He put those aside, concentrating on the directions he understood. Reading the second line, he drew a circle on his parchment. He skipped the next two, then drew a triangle to the side of the circle, scratching two short vertical lines from each bottom corner—the 'feet.'

It looked like… an A. Did the riddle spell a word? The letter C was a semicircle, and there were two of those. Then another circle—an O.

O ACCO.

Sighing, he went back to the first line. Crosses had four sections that met at point… if only there were only three of the four sections, it would look a bit like—a Y?

YO ACCO? That made no sense. And there were only about two words that began with 'Y,' anyway…

But he had been imagining a cross like an 'X'—what if the riddle meant a_religious_ cross? Because taking the top bit off one of those left you with… a T.

TO ACCO…

Tobacco? That worked! The letter B had two semicircles—so long as perpendicular meant something like a straight line, he had his answer.

Shrugging, he wrote his guess on a bit of parchment, folded it around the card, and passed it to Demetria Robins. She spared him a sleepy smile before nuzzling into the pillow of her arms, dozing off again.

Al stretched, arching his back. Fridays were good days, he decided—Defense in the morning, naptime in the afternoon. Sure, he had detention later that night, but that would be a one-time thing, since he resolved to steer clear of Scor. And he had tea with Hagrid after class, he remembered with a grin, and that almost made up for the detention.

Almost.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Rose was already standing by the front door when Al arrived in the Entrance that afternoon a few minutes past their agreed meeting time.

"Heya," he panted, a bit breathless from hurrying up the last flight of stairs. "Sorry I'm late—Argil got to telling one of his stories…"

"It's all right," said Rose, pulling open the door. The hinges groaned and she sent a quick smile over her shoulder before stepping out—the same smile she had given him before Defense.

Its reappearance gave Al pause. That morning it was just a smile, but seeing it again, duplicated so exactly, it seemed forced. Was Rose uncomfortable? Did she secretly not want to have tea with Hagrid? Or did she secretly not want to have tea with _him_?

"Coming?" she said, halfway down the steps.

"Sorry—yeah," he said, and darted forward, dragging on the iron ring to close the door behind him.

They did not speak as they trudged down the lawn to Hagrid's hut, situated by the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Rose's knock was met with a loud, deep bark, and the door was flung open to reveal Hagrid, one hand gripping the collar of a massive bloodhound, the other motioning them inside.

"Come in, come in! Don' mind this feller—back, Chopper! Back!"

Cautiously, Rose edged through the door, her back against the wall so as to keep out of range of the dog's slobbering mouth. Al followed, holding out a hand for Chopper to sniff.

Hagrid chuckled. "Now you've done it! Give 'im an inch—" And he released the collar.

Chopper bounded forward, bypassing Al's hand and going straight for his face. Al knew a split second of paralyzing fear before a great, lolling tongue swiped his cheek and he was treated to a burst of dog breath.

"Argh!" He angled his mouth away from Chopper's wet nose, hands flying up to shield himself from the snout.

Hagrid found it all immensely amusing. "All righ,' all righ,'" he said, his gray beard twitching, and he hauled off the dog, herding it to the basket in the corner. "Please, come an' sit—might need ta boost yerselves up…"

Might need a stepladder, is more like it, Al thought, hoisting himself onto one of the huge chairs set around the scrubbed wooden table. It took Rose two tries, but she managed with the help of Al's hand. Hagrid bustled about by the stove, removing a whistling kettle from the hob.

"I tell ya, this brings me back, it does," he said, pouring their tea into bowl-like pewter cups. "I remember the last time yer father was here, Al—sat in the same seat ya are now. And yer parents, too, Rose."

He set a large plate of what looked like fossilized cakes in the center of the table, quite out of reach, but Hagrid took care of this by providing them with two each.

"Thanks very much for inviting us, Hagrid," said Al loudly and clearly. Rose frowned.

Hagrid waved his mitt of a hand. "Aw, yer like yer mother—she was always so polite t'me, sending me tickets to her Quidditch matches. Never forgot to send me two, so I'd fit in the stand!"

Al wondered at Hagrid's constant use of the past tense. When was the last time he had seen their parents? He spoke as though of a distant memory…

"You saw Aunt Ginny play?" said Rose.

"Was a nice way to catch up with 'em—Harry was busy trainin' to be an Auror, o'course. Didn' have any time to make it up to Hogwarts anymore."

Al grinned. "Mum probably just wanted to make you into a Harpies fan," he said, practically shouting, enunciating each word.

Hagrid laughed, saying something about the year Al's mother's team won the League Cup, but Al was distracted by Rose's indignant glare.

"What?" he said at normal volume.

"He's not stupid!" she whispered furiously. "Why are talking to him like he's—"

"Deaf?" Al suggested.

"What?" said Rose, glancing from him to Hagrid, who was still talking above them, obliviously stirring sugar into his cup.

"He's gone deaf," said Al. "He could hardly hear me shouting down at the platform."

"Oh," said Rose, looking away.

"But enough o'that," said Hagrid, shaking his head fondly at whatever he had been recalling. "I want ta know about yer first week! Tell me about yer classes and yer teachers—I only know half of 'em at all, lotsa foreigners, ya know. They got a French bloke in for Ancient Runes, can' understand a word he says, but he's a decent feller. And a new Potions Master, suppose ya met him—"

"Professor Kalna?" said Rose.

"What's his name? Branko somethin', can' remember. Gives me the shivers, he does. Dunno why… maybe the eyes. What'd ya think o'him?"

"He's very…" Al began. What could he say that would not have him feeling guilty around Danica later? "Thin," he said, raising his voice above the clatter of Hagrid grabbing another rock cake.

"Well, he is that," Hagrid agreed. Remembering his own cake, Al cracked a piece in two against the edge of the table, popping a bit in his mouth to suck on.

"I think he's CREEPY," said Rose, finally increasing the volume of her voice. Hagrid nodded. "Reminds me of a SPIDER."

"He's a good teacher," said Al. Tilting his cup on the saucer, he decided against attempting to lift it, and lowered his head to sip his tea.

"An' what about friends?" asked Hagrid, crunching noising on his cake. "I'd ask about how yer likin' the common room, but I expect yer parents had already told ya all about it. No surprises there, eh?"

Al stared. Hagrid lifted his cup for a long gulp, unaware of his mistake. Was it possible he had forgotten? Was Hagrid's mind going the way of his hearing?

"But Al's not—" He kicked Rose under the table. "Ow!" she exclaimed, her look of confusion transforming to one of pain.

"Sorry," Al mumbled.

"Whassat?" said Hagrid.

"Nothing," said Rose, rubbing her shin.

"Yeah, yer parents were sure lucky, makin' fast friends so early," mused Hagrid.

"Oh, Al's made plenty of friends," muttered Rose, looking mutinous. "Enemies, too." She glanced at Al challengingly, who stared back, bewildered. "Depends on who you talk to—he's either a riddle-solving mastermind or an anti-Muggleborn know-it-all."

"Says who?" said Al, recoiling at the last.

"Ah, that's good ta hear," said Hagrid, tossing Chopper a rock cake. The bloodhound yipped happily, gnawing on the treat gripped between his front paws. Al watched, pathetically grateful their host had no idea what Rose had said.

"Who's been calling me anti-Muggleborn?" he heard himself ask.

"…The Ravenclaws," said Rose quietly, a bit abashed. "The Hufflepuffs think you're a gift from Merlin, but all the first year Ravenclaws can talk about is how mean you were to Richard Pluza, who'd never even held a wand 'til this week…"

Al shook his head, opening his mouth to explain, then closed it. He felt a bit sick.

"You didn't!" said Rose, sounding weak with relief. "Oh, Al—I know it couldn't be true, but every Ravenclaw I asked said you made fun of him for never seeing magic before, and James has been saying such awful things—"

She broke off. Al was shaking his head again, back and forth, willing her to stop talking; he did not want to know what James had been saying.

"All right, Al?" said Hagrid, leaning forward with concern. "Yer white as a bone!"

"He's fine, Hagrid," said Rose. She seemed to be breathing easier, at least.

Al stared blankly at his tea as Rose commenced a loud, detailed description of her first week in Gryffindor Tower. He only realized how cold he had gone when Chopper's warm, heavy head appeared in his lap, the dog gazing up at him with drooping eyes.

"Heya boy," he said, draping an arm over Chopper's wide neck. Chopper sat by Al's chair, consenting to have his ears scratched, until finally Rose made their excuses and Hagrid walked them to the door, bidding they come visit again soon.

As they trudged back up to the castle, older students came streaming out of a greenhouse in the distance, having just been released from their last period class. Al spotted a few through the glass, hanging behind to chat with Professor Longbottom. All girls, he noted.

"You mad?" asked Rose, casting him a sidelong glance.

"No," he muttered, glaring at his shoes. Rose stifled a laugh, nudging his side.

"Liar, liar, broom on fire."

"Just—since when do you listen to James?" he demanded.

"I don't," said Rose immediately. "I mean, I won't anymore—I promise." Al said nothing. "He was lying, you know," she continued. "About Teddy snogging Victoire. Vee was telling me—Teddy walked by as she was about to get on the train—probably coming to say good-bye to _us_, she said, and she waved so he came over and they were _talking_, she said, when James ran past them." She paused, waiting until Al glanced up, interest piqued. "And now everyone thinks they're getting married or something," she finished, smiling triumphantly.

Al raised his eyebrows, trying for Supremely Unsurprised. It was a look he had picked up from Argil over the past week—it was the boy's default classroom face. Rose mimicked his expression, which was _her_ default reaction whenever she had trouble reading him.

"Vee does fancy Teddy, though," he said finally. Rose giggled.

"I didn't say she was _upset_ by what James said."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Though Rose had been quick to accept the concept of his innocence in regards to the Pluza debacle, Al doubted the Ravenclaws would be so easily swayed. From what Rose said, only the first years of the House were united in their dislike—Ignatius, as his cousin and a fifth year Prefect, would never stand to have Al labeled a racist, so the rumor had probably not spread to the upper years…

Even so, it was unfair to the point of being absurd. Excluding the Muggleborns, he probably had more interaction with Muggles than any other student in the entire school. He had _lived_ with his Aunt Dena and Uncle Dudley, for Merlin's sake, back when James and Lily had come down with dragon pox. It had swept the family the summer of his sixth birthday: all his cousins except Victoire had caught it.

His mother still liked to tell the story about his father's brilliant suggestion—that they purposely let Al catch it from his siblings, like the Muggles sometimes did with chicken pox. Looking at him like he was a nutter, she had ordered him to call up the Dursleys.

Dragon pox was not contagious to Muggles, and unlike their poultry-equivalent, she explained, was better off never contracted.

Al had vague recollections of the month it had taken for the Den to be declared contagion-free. Mostly, he remembered watching Disney films with his cousin Hector and the two of them searching for places to hide from Lenny, Hector's older brother, who had unpleasant definitions of 'fun.'

Hector would laugh himself silly if he heard about this, thought Al, with a rueful grimace. He turned a last corner and began a slow ascent of the stairs to the Entrance Hall, where Filch, no doubt, was waiting for him. Al had no idea what to expect for his detention—Corey and Clay told of horrific punishments dealt by Filch, but most of those had sounded highly illegal.

Glancing up as he cleared the last few steps, Al stopped short. Scor was standing, shoulders miserably hunched, next to Filch in the center of the Hall. The caretaker was hunchbacked as well, though Al suspected this was involuntary—the man was dreadfully stooped with age.

Al had assumed his detention and Scor's would be served separately; they had been received separately, after all. Perhaps they would be given different assignments, though…

"Habben got aw night, Potter," said Filch, his wheezy voice oddly sibilant. He lurched off towards the grand staircase, Al and Scor hurrying to fall in step behind him. As they marched up the stairs, Al felt Scor looking at him, but he kept his gaze firmly forward. Filch led them up to the third floor and past a long gallery of suits of armor, his uneven stride surprisingly rapid.

"You be powishing in da Troby Room tonight," he said, stopping in front of a gilded door. "Wibbout magic," he added. Al tried not to stare as Filch's tongue darted out of the abnormally large gap in his mouth to swipe his upper lip. The man was missing all four of his upper incisors.

"Both of us?" said Scor.

"If you dink you're getting ob easy, den you habben seen da Troby Room." He emitted a stuttering whistle. Al guessed it would have been an evil chuckle, had Filch his front teeth. "Ow be taking your wands, now," he said, holding out a gnarled hand. "Powish and rags are in dere."

Filch opened the Trophy Room door, barely waiting until they were through before slamming it shut. Scor jumped, head whipping around.

"Daft old—" he muttered, turning back. "—Merlin." Eyes wide, he gazed around at the floor to ceiling crystal cabinets lining either side of the room, encasing shelf upon shelf of plaques and trophies. Almost immediately, his awestruck expression gave way to annoyance. "How does this make sense? Why don't students _take home_ the awards they win? Not like anyone's appreciating them here—or is this just to give people with detention something to do?"

Al shrugged, starting toward a bucket and rag sitting by the nearest trophy case. He did not know quite how to react to being trapped with the person he had studiously evaded since Monday morning. He was no longer angry; he was simply not prepared to let slide what had happened, and as Scor had made no move to reconcile, neither had he. It made for a silent sort of stalemate; he was not even sure Scor had noticed Al avoiding him.

He passed a rag to Scor, and they slowly made their way down the room, on opposite sides, scanning the glittering goblets and engraved placards. Across the room, Scor kept up a running commentary on names he recognized, marveling at the remote dates glinting here and there along the shelves.

"This one, too! From 1703, though… guess it could be distant relative of hers…"

Al only half paid attention, absorbed as he was with the awards on his own side. There appeared to be no system dictating where awards went—he passed a Medal for Magical Merit dated 1492, then a Quidditch team plaque from 1960… Glancing ahead, Al saw that the room was actually L-shaped, veering abruptly to the right. For some reason, only one trophy cabinet continued around the bend—the cabinets on Scor's side ended at the corner.

He heard Scor raising his voice, but Al was leaning forward on his toes, craning his neck to see what lay beyond the curve. He thought he glimpsed flitting movement on the wall—

"AL!" shouted Scor.

Startled, Al felt himself losing balance, his torso dipping precariously downward as his arms flailed in an attempt to regain his footing—he would—not fall—in front—of Scor… One foot shot forward, barely saving himself. "_What?_" he said, twisting to glare over his shoulder.

Scor glared back, throwing down the unused rag. "Are you planning on ignoring me for the rest of the year or the rest of our lives?" He stormed towards Al, fists balled up at his sides, his face flushed. "Figured I'd check, so I know whether I should give up now."

Straightening, Al stumbled back a few steps. "I… what—?"

"It's not like I _meant_ for you to get detention, and I thought you'd let it _go_ once I had detention, too—"

An image of Scor's sap-drenched, satisfied smirk flew up in Al's mind. "You did that on purpose!" he exclaimed.

"I know!" yelled Scor, flinging out his arms as he stopped, not a foot away. "And it wasn't exactly _easy_—if I knew Longbottom was such a softie I'd've gone for Sinistra, but he was supposed to be this tough war veteran—"

"He is!" protested Al, taking another step backward. Scor seemed to take this as invitation to stomp closer.

"Good for him! Longbottom the Snake Slayer and All-Around Nice Bloke, but they didn't put that last bit in the history books, did they?" Scor had forced Al so far back he was trapped, the cabinets right behind him. They had reached the very end of the long room. "No, they didn't. I had to _work_ for my detention. All _you_ did was walk in—what are you…?"

Al had stopped listening, staring over Scor's shoulder at the wall that had just come into view. Scor turned his head, following Al's eyes.

"…Oh."

Al stepped around Scor, entranced. Floor to ceiling, spanning the entire wall, hung picture frames of all shapes, makes and sizes, glinting in the guttering candlelight. The frames' occupants were likewise varied: Al saw witches and wizards, centaurs and house-elves—even an old bloodhound drooled from a carved wood frame near the corner. Old and young, painted and photographed, they blinked out at him, some smiling, some yawning, some scratching their noses. Craning his neck, Al read the words arching over them all, the deep violet letters draped in shadow:

**IN MEMORIAM**

_**Fallen Comrades at the Battle of Hogwarts **_

_**23 - 24 May 1998**_

A shoe scuffed on the stone floor as Scor drew up beside him, the sound strangely magnified in the sudden silence.

"Sorry," said Scor. Al glanced at him, but Scor was gazing up at the wall, the apology directed more at the picture frames than at Al. He could see shards of light from the wall reflected in Scor's pale eyes.

They approached the memorial gingerly, as though afraid to disturb the respectful quiet. Most of the non-humans were painted—no photos of them had ever been taken, Al guessed. An engraved nameplate was attached below each frame, stating their date of birth, if known, and in the case of many of the witches and wizards, their Hogwarts House.

"Colin Creevey," murmured Scor, reading a name off the wall. Following Scor's finger, Al saw a scrawny, blond boy grinning out at them, an old-fashioned camera hanging around his neck. He had been sixteen when he died.

"There's a Gryffindor girl named Creevey," said Al. What was her name?

"Colleen," said Scor, nodding.

A few frames away, Al spotted a wizard very much like his Uncle George, only younger—about Teddy's age. He watched as Fred Weasley I laughed at something off camera, eyes glinting, and glanced around to share the joke with his twin. Then he laughed again, the captured moment replaying.

Al wrenched his eyes away, clearing his throat. A house-elf peered concernedly at him from her portrait. He mustered a smile for her and backed away a bit, trying to see the faces further up. His attention was drawn to a bright photo of a witch with a heart-shaped face, eyes playful as the shade of her hair graduated along the color spectrum.

No nameplate was necessary—she had to be Nymphadora Tonks. And if she was Teddy's mother, then the tired-looking man in the frame next to her had to be…

Remus Lupin stared calmly from his chair, his worn, scarred face belying his age. His mouth, though closed, curled at the corners, hinting at a smile Al was certain would have been just as mischievous as his son's.

He wished he had one of Hagrid's chairs, so he could examine their photos properly.

"Al." Scor waved him over to where he stood, near the middle of the wall. "The spy himself," he said, grinning up at a grand portrait that most definitely did not return the favor.

Al had seen photos of Severus Snape before, heard stories of the notorious Potions Master, the quadruple-agent Death Eater, the brief Headmaster, who had risked everything in the name of the woman he loved. Descriptions of the man always differed depending on who was telling the story, but looking at his portrait, Al saw they had got the major points right: lank hair that hung to his shoulders, a curving nose that dominated his pallid face, and dark, impenetrable eyes.

Snape was staring off to the side, seemingly lost in thought, his expression slack. Al could not help but think he seemed out of place—a fine portrait, ornately framed—amongst the smaller photos and paintings. He occupied the very center of the wall, prominently displayed at the heart of the memorial.

"My dad says he was one of the bravest wizards he ever knew," said Al, speaking almost unconsciously.

Scor chuckled softly. "And—for him to have been in Slytherin, he was even more cunning than he was brave."

Al had never thought of it that way. "…Yeah," he said. Gazing up at Severus Snape, Al felt his mouth curving in a smile.

"You look daft," said Scor absently, turning away. "We should start on the trophies. Don't want Filch wagging his gums at us."

He need not have worried, as it turned out they had plenty of time. Filch did not reappear until at least eleven, as the clock was just chiming the half hour when they finally stumbled through the sliding wall, exhausted and reeking of Ms. Powell's All-Purpose Polish. The Slytherin common room was packed with students, all staying up late, taking advantage of the Friday night. Scor headed for Paul and Matthias, tucked away in a corner by the tapestry of Paracelsus. Al hesitated, then continued on towards the dormitories.

He and Scor were on speaking terms, he supposed, but once they had got to polishing neither had said much, out of respect for the memorial lying just out of sight. Since Scor, apparently, _had_ noticed Al staying away from him, and had sort of apologized in his own nonsensical way, Al figured he could relax his evasion tactics a bit.

But he was tired, and a full common room made him slightly nervous. Better to stay out of sight, safe in his bed.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

On their way to lunch the next day, the first year Slytherins were waylaid by a small crowd gathered in front of the notice board in the Entrance Hall. Abbey squealed and shoved her way to the wall, returning to shout: "Flying Lessons! Thursday after classes, with the Ravenclaws!"

"Hooray," muttered Sarah-May, twirling her finger. Matthias and Argil broke into excited chatter, recounting the last time they flown. Scor, surprisingly, was quiet, contemplating the notice board with a furrowed brow. As they all walked off for the double doors, however, Al noticed Ana lingering behind.

"All right?" asked Al, sidestepping a group of upper-years headed to the Great Hall.

Ana nodded, eyeing the Flying schedule. "Fine. It's just…" She peeked at Al, embarrassed. "I've never flown before," she admitted quietly.

"Oh," said Al. "Well, that's why we're having lessons, isn't it? We're going to learn…"

"But everyone else already knows how," she said.

"The Muggleborns don't." Al rolled his eyes, remembering. "And I know there's at least one Muggleborn in Ravenclaw."

"Al," said Ana reprovingly, as they started for the Great Hall. Al's hand flew to his mouth, realizing how that must have sounded.

"I didn't mean—" he said. "I just—did something stupid, and the Ravenclaws are angry with me, and it's annoying."

Ana shot Al a confused glance, but said nothing. Passing through the double doors, Al felt something press briefly against his back, but when he looked at Ana, she was busy staring along the Slytherin table, searching for a place to sit.

"The others are near the end," she said, leading the way.

About halfway along the long table, Al's neck began to prickle. Jerking his head around, he saw most of Ravenclaw and a large portion of Slytherin staring back at him. He quickened his step, face reddening at the sound of muffled laughter, and had almost reached the place where Scor had saved him a seat when something hard collided with his side, sending him stumbling into Ana.

"What the—" He whipped around, glaring at the young Ravenclaw boy whose arm was still extended. The boy's surrounding housemates sniggered into their plates. Behind him, Al heard a gasp and the sound of tearing parchment as Ana ripped something off his back.

"Five points from Ravenclaw!"

Al turned to see Violet Urquhart staring furiously at the Ravenclaw table. Al felt someone tugging on his hand, guiding him to sit. At the teachers' table, Crowburn had looked up at the commotion, but apparently decided his prefect had the situation under control.

"Oi, Weasley!" Violet shouted, standing. Farther down the Hall, Ignatius glanced up, mouth full of meat pie. "I better not catch one of yours attacking one of mine again!"

Righting himself on the bench, Al twisted an arm to feel around on his back, touching bits of parchment clinging where the Sticking Charm still held. Beside him, Ana was crumpling the parchment into a ball, but Al grabbed it from her as she made to hide it in her pocket. Flattening it on his plate, the he saw _SWAT ME, I'M A SLYTHERIN_ printed in thick, red ink.

No sooner had he read the words than Violet, across the table, snatched it away. "Give it here," she growled. At a tap from her wand, the parchment folded itself into a crane. Muttering under her breath, she waved her wand, and it stuttered into motion, flapping its papery wings.

Al watched as the crane launched itself into the air and fluttered over the heads of the Ravenclaws, then the Hufflepuffs. It began its descent over the Gryffindor table, veering left to alight delicately on a familiar shoulder.

"Oh look," said Violet. "It's found its master." She flicked her wand.

Across the hall, the crane burst into flame. James gave a shrill yelp, pawing at his shoulder as bits of ash fluttered above his head. He turned, eyes raking the Slytherin table, but Violet was casually sipping her soup. Al was hunched, half cowering behind Ana.

"Is he staring at me?" he asked. "Does he think it was me?"

"If he has half a brain, he'll know it can't have been," said Violet. She cut her eyes to Al, who was still crouched with his head by Ana's plate, and arched her brow. "Unless you _are_ an evil genius, like people are saying."

"Or unless my brother has _less_ than half a brain, like _I'm_ saying!" Al exclaimed, not at all reassured. Ana patted Al's head, nudging him off her plate.

"It'll be fine, Al," she said, forcing him upright. "You only ever see him at meals, anyway." Glancing at the Gryffindor table, she added: "And look, Rose is already giving him a scolding."

She was right—Rose was leaning out from the bench, barking at his brother, her face scrunched in such a way that she seemed a mini-version of his Aunt Hermione. James did not look very appreciative.

"I used to wish I had a brother," said Scor conversationally. He sat on Al's left, buttering a roll. "Younger, obviously—and he'd do whatever I asked and look up to me and always side with me over our parents."

"You used to wish you had dog, you mean," said Al with a snort.

"And I didn't even get that!" said Scor, aggrieved. "Mother gave me a 'choice' between a ferret and a _goldfish_—so of course I chose the ferret. This was right after she and father had a massive row, so he only found out when we brought Whiskers home and I'd already 'become attached,' Mother said."

Al laughed. Scor's mouth twitched in a grin, and he went on, telling anyone who cared to listen about the many troubles he had faced training a ferret at the age of eight. Al let Scor's voice carry him away from the Great Hall, grateful for the distraction.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

That Monday before Astronomy, Rose pulled Al aside.

"I've talked to him, Al," she said. "I saw what he did. Teasing is one thing, but if your Dad heard he was making fun of you for your House—"

"Rose, don't!" said Al, alarmed. "Really, it's not a big deal—"

"It's not fair," said Rose, shaking her head stubbornly. "You don't know what he's been saying, Al—horrible stuff! And you know he's just doing it for attention. You shouldn't put up with it."

"I don't have to put up with it—I'm not there!"

"Well, then I shouldn't put up with it," said Rose, heading back to her desk. "Don't worry. I've taken care of it."

Which is why, Al assumed, James was calling his name in the Entrance Hall as he trailed behind the rest of the Slytherins on their way to supper. He considered pretending not to hear him, maybe hide in front of Matthias…

"Al! ALIE!"

Cringing, Al stopped. He _hated_ being called Alie. He motioned for Ana to go on without him—if James was set on embarrassing him, he did not want witnesses. He stayed where he was, making James walk around to face him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Rose, watching them with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Had to go running to Rose, did you?" muttered James, avoiding Al's eyes. "She's threatening to write home, you know. Merlin, she's worse than Mum." He glanced off to the side, where Rose was tapping her foot, and sighed of exasperation. "Whatever. I'm _sorry_ I hurt your ickle feelings and stuck a Swat Me sign on your back. I promise not to do it ever again." Head bowed, he peeked up at Al. "C'_mon_, lighten up on the glare or she won't think I apologized."

Al scoffed. "_That_ was an apology?"

"Yeah… Hey, look!" said James, eyes lighting up. "You got Flying Lessons this week, yeah?" He twisted, squinting at the notice board. "Thursday? How's this—" He turned back to Al. "You stop glaring at me, I'll tell you a secret."

Al held out for about three seconds. "What—what kind of secret?"

"About the brooms they make the first years use. I remember from last year—there's only one they've got that's even close to what we're used to." He lowered his voice, and Al leaned in before he could stop himself. "Personal space, poof-meister!" James crowed, giving Al a slight shove.

Al gritted his teeth, flushing. He _always_ fell for that one. "Tell me the secret or I'm glaring at you forever!"

"Okay, okay," said James, the smirk disappearing from his face. "There's an old German broom, called the Besen. Flies like a dream—and it's the only one that does, so I'd do my best to grab it. Won't respond to voice commands or anything, but that's just 'cause it was made before that was common, so… All right? No more Death Stare?"

Grudgingly, Al forced his face to relax, and nodded.

"Good enough," said James. "Good enough?" he repeated to Rose, raising his voice.

Rose moved her hands to her hips. "Fine."

"Nice talking to you, Alie. Hey, make sure you keep warm in that dungeon—nights are getting colder. Don't want you catching your death, do we?"

And with that, his brother walked away.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"All—all right… Children?" Professor Terwit's voice rose shakily above the classroom noise. She was cowering in front of her desk, hands held up before her chest, placating. From her expression of abject terror, she might have been confronting a pack of wolves, rather than her eleven-year-old students.

Al sighed. He had so been looking forward to Transfiguration, but he was beginning to give up hope on the class—Terwit was just as petrified of them as she had been last week.

"Now, all right…" Locating her wand, Terwit rapped it smartly on the side of her desk, jumping slightly at the sudden noise. Beside him, Ana covered her mouth, shaking with laughter.

"Everyone pipe down!" hollered Peter, with better results than Terwit. The professor smiled at him gratefully, if twitchily, as the classroom quieted.

"Thank you, Mr. Bones," she said. Behind him, Al heard Paul snigger.

"_Thank you, Mr. Bones_," echoed Matthias quietly, voice high and mawkish. Al winced, noticing a nerve jump on Terwit's face.

"Class? If you would please—" She coughed, clearing her throat. "Please open your books to page twenty-three. We'll be continuing the lesson on metals to woods…" Turning away to spell something on the board, and she instantly relaxed, speaking more freely. Al wondered if she had ever considered teaching blindfolded—he was sure she'd have a much easier time of it.

Ana was taking notes, but Al did not follow suit. He had skimmed the metals to woods chapter on the train, and Terwit had a tendency of butchering her source material. His notes from their first class had been complete nonsense upon rereading. Instead, sliding his bookbag in front of him as a shield, he flipped over the Famous Wizard's Card Daisy Zeller had given him that morning.

Kirley Duke was lounging in a tattered easy chair, boots propped on an equally worn ottoman. He was grinning at nothing in particular, eyes puffy and vacant. Al snickered under his breath—here was the lead guitarist of the most prolific wizarding band ever, and this was the image on his Chocolate Frogs Card? Although, he supposed, the card might have been made after the Weird Sisters disbanded. Duke, he'd heard, had taken their breakup the hardest.

Al was uncertain whether he trusted the dazed guitarist to tell him the riddle quietly. Maybe if Terwit stepped out for something… Stowing the card in his pocket, he felt the sharp corner of an envelope, and drew out the letter he had received that morning during breakfast.

The handwriting was small and spiky, written with glinting purple ink.

_Al!_

_Hope you feel properly special being the FIRST Potter/Weasley to receive a letter from me this term. I expect you to strut around the rest of the day with it in your pocket, maybe brag to your friends about hearing from your older and very cool friend Theodore Lupin, Auror-in-Training._

_Which is why I'm writing, actually. Second year of this Auror program is turning out to be even more hectic than the first—so if I want to, say, visit a certain god-brother of mine, I've got to sort it out well in advance. See, I meant to give you something at King's Cross before you chugged away, but I got to talking, which you know is what I do best, and completely forgot (something I also do quite well—but don't despair, young Albus! With practice, you too can be as good at forgetting things!)._

_Where was I…? Visiting! And gift-giving, though what I have is rightfully yours, so I'm not so much gifting as delivering. How's the 8th October? You're pretty much trapped there, but I thought I'd be polite and ask—showing up unannounced definitely had its appeal, though. I could have told my Stealth Instructor I was perfecting my sneak attack!_

_Was hoping I could make it to the Quidditch match next week, but I've got a dueling demonstration. It's Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, yeah? And I heard from your dad James has made Seeker! Give him my congrats—or a swift kick, whichever you think best. Can't let this go to his head, can we?_

_Hoping to hear back from you,_

_Teddy_

_P.S._

_Maybe drop your Mum an owl soon? You know she doesn't want to seem like she's babying, so you'll probably not hear from her first, but she's dying for a letter. And James never writes—you've got to pick up the slack, Al!_

Chin in his palm, Al hid a smile behind his fingers. Needless to say, he could not _wait_ for October. He kept going over possible things Teddy might deem 'rightfully' his. Was it something that had belonged to Al's father—a family heirloom of some sort? Or was it something already belonging to Al that Teddy had taken, for some reason? Al didn't recall ever lending him anything…

"It's a bit difficult to explain… I—I think I'd better show you, instead." Professor Terwit looked around, patting her pockets. "But where is my…?"

"Not again," muttered Ana, slouching to rest her cheek on her hands. Terwit was searching her desktop, peering under books and spare bits of parchment. "That's at least once every class. How can you _be_ a witch and lose your wand this often?"

Terwit's face was bright as a tomato. "Has anyone seen…?" She choked, eyes bulging. "I'll—be right back. Must have left it—" Stumbling sideways to the door, she disappeared. Immediately, the class broke out in whispers and muffled laughter.

"_Merlin_!" exclaimed Scor from the desk beside them. Argil was shaking his head, overwhelmed. "Flobberworms for a brain, that one—_frightened_ flobberworms!"

"Leave her alone," said Peter, in the desk directly in front of Scor. "We make her nervous, is all."

"Breathing makes _her_ nervous, I reckon," sneered Scor. Al suspected it was not Terwit Scor really disliked, but Peter, who had presented an open target in fast becoming teacher's pet.

He tuned them out as Peter fired something back. Folding up the letter, Al took out Kirley Duke, who was gazing at his own fingers with fascination.

"Erm, Mr. Duke?" asked Al. Slowly, Duke's focus shifted beyond his hands. He opened his mouth, but it took a moment for sound to emerge—and when it did, it was lazy and slurred.

"_Ha_rk," he said. "That was my _father_… He's not here…"

"Kirley?" Al tried.

"_I'm_ here."

"Yes," said Al. "You are. Could you tell me the riddle, Kirley?"

Kirley nodded earnestly. "Yeah…" Nods trailing off, he turned his head, distracted by something out of frame.

"Say it, maybe?" prompted Al.

"It's a _process_, little lad…" Kirley looked down at his foot, which began to tap an even beat on the floor. He bobbed his head in time, closing his eyes, and chanted:

_John gave his brother James a box: _

_About it there were many locks._

_James woke and said it gave him pain, _

_So gave it back to John again._

_The box was not with lid supplied,_

_Yet caused two lids to open wide;_

_And all these locks had never a key—_

_What kind of box, then, could it be?_

Kirley ended with a flourish, drumming his palms against his thighs, and collapsed backward in his chair, spent. "That's… _it._"

Al stared at him, perplexed. "Sorry, but could you—erm—" He hesitated in asking Kirley to repeat the riddle, when clearly the guitarist had overextended himself saying it the first time.

"No need, Al," said Ana, pushing a parchment at him. "I think I got it down."

"You did?" Al pulled the parchment closer and saw the riddle shining up at him, the ink still wet. "Thanks!"

"Figured I'd better," said Ana dryly. "Since you haven't bothered taking out a quill."

"It's just—Terwit…" Al said, waving his hand ineffectually.

"I know," said Ana, patting his arm.

The classroom door swung open and Terwit blustered in. "I—I just don't see where it could've—" She stopped, eyes riveted to the base of her desk. Emitting a short, exasperated grunt, she dropped to her knees, feeling around under the desk with her hand. "Aha!" she cried, clambering to her feet. One hand gripped her dusty wand as the other self-consciously tugged the front of her robe. Her hair was askew, coming loose from its pins. "Must—must have fallen, and rolled…"

Matthias coughed, badly covering a laugh. Scor and Peter, who had been sniping quietly at each other all along, grudgingly ceased their bickering.

"Right," said Terwit. "Right, where were we?"

"You were about to transfigure a tin cup into turnip, Professor," said Ana, hand raised.

"Oh, yes—of course," said Terwit, reaching for the small, dented cup by her inkwell. "Thank you, Miss—Miss Ana."

Shaking his head, Al returned to the riddle. Kirley was snoring, passed out in his chair. As Terwit haltingly explained the spell she was about to perform, Al read what Ana had transcribed.

…A box with many locks that causes pain? Sounds like a cursed box, Al thought, but discarded the theory. The riddles he had answered so far all had mundane solutions—that was what made them riddles, wasn't it? Otherwise, there was no point—almost anything could be explained away with magic.

… _And all these locks had never a key…_

That bit reminded him of the river riddle, where the common words had more than one meaning… Al dug around in his bag for a quill, starting a list on Ana's parchment.

Locks—what sort of locks didn't have keys? There were _lochs_, he supposed, glancing out the window at the lake shimmering below. And things could be _inter_locked, or _land_locked. Chewing his lip, he looked around the classroom for ideas.

Everyone else was watching Terwit—everyone except for Scor, who was glaring at the back of Peter's head. Ana was studying the professor's jerky movements carefully, twisting the end of a braid around her finger, as the object on the professor's desk morphed back and forth between a tin cup and a sickly-looking turnip.

Ana tugged on the braid, pulled the other one over her shoulder to wrap the loose end about her pinky. Al looked down at the list.

Locks… of hair? He wasn't sure that worked, either, but scribbled it down anyway.

_The box was not with lid supplied,_

_Yet caused two lids to open wide_…

So, maybe not a lid to a container… Hats and caps were sometimes called lids, though. And there were _eye_lids, he realized excitedly. That one even made sense, as two lids opening wide could mean two _eyes_ opening wide! He circled _eyelids_, and did the same for _locks of hair_, figuring these were his best guesses, as both were body parts.

He reread the riddle, substituting his new words for the old ones, and slumped in his seat. It made no sense. And what other meanings were there for 'box' besides…a _box_?

Professor Longbottom had talked about a box _tree_ during Herbology on Monday—it was a small sort of evergreen whose wood was used for magical instruments and even wandmaking… Uncle Dudley sometimes called the telly 'the box,' but just as the answers were never purely magical, he felt that neither were they likely to be uniquely Muggle.

What, then?

Al was still deep in thought when Terwit dismissed them, sagging against her desk with relief. According to the hourglass on her desk—which was falsely named, as it actually ran for an hour and a half—ten minutes remained to the period, but no one said anything.

Out in the hall, Al was just telling Daisy he would hopefully have solved the riddle by Double Herbology that afternoon, when a sharp cry sounded behind him. Whipping around, he saw Peter covered in boils, which, coupled with his already unfortunate complexion, made for a doubly gruesome sight.

"MALFOY!" he hollered.

"I don't know," said Scor, touching his chin thoughtfully. "Is there anyone _else_ you've insulted today?"

"Undo it!" demanded Peter, teeth clenched in pain. "Undo it NOW!"

"If you're self-conscious—you really don't look any different," said Scor kindly. "I wonder if this is one of those things you were telling me about—you know, stuff you inherit from your parents. Was your mother horribly spotty as well?"

With a roar, Peter launched himself at Scor, who readily pocketed his wand, raising his fists—it seemed he had only been waiting for an excuse.

"Don't talk about my mother!" bellowed Peter, raining punches. Scor was doing his best to block to them, but Peter landed a few sharp hooks to his side. Around them, the first year Hufflepuff and Slytherins stared—Al suspected many of them had never seen a fist fight before. "UNDO IT, YOU RAT!"

"I'll undo it—" said Scor. Spotting an opening, he swung at Peter's head. "—when you take back what you said!"

Where were the teachers? If Terwit was the only one within hearing, he guessed they were on their own—she had probably barricaded the door.

"What?" scoffed Peter, ducking so that Scor skimmed his jaw. "That your family is _scum_ and should've been locked up with the rest of the Death Eaters?" He aimed a punch to Scor's side, allowing Scor to clip his ear. "Why should I? It's _true_!"

"It's _not_," snarled Scor, sending a vicious jab at Peter's stomach. "It's _not_—I _hate_ you, you stupid—" Matthias grabbed Scor by the back of his robe, yanking him back. "What're you—? Let go!" He swung again at Peter's face, but was out of reach. Taking advantage, Peter reached out, smacking Scor on the side of his head. Archie Smith lunged forward to restrain his housemate.

"This is most unwizardly!" exclaimed Argil, stepping between them once he was sure the fighters were tethered. "What are you, brawling Muggles?"

"Or BOXING Muggles!" exclaimed Al, eyes flying wide. "That's it!" Fumbling to unfold Ana's parchment, he scanned the riddle. It all fit. "He boxed him on the head!"

"Woo-hoo, little lad," said a muffled voice from his pocket. He took out Kirley Duke, who was twirling a languid finger in celebration. Glancing up, Al saw everyone staring at him, bewildered. Flushing, he turned to Daisy, holding out the card.

"The—er… the answer is—John gave his brother a box… on the head."

"Oh," she said, caught off guard. "Erm… thanks."

"The little lad's word is _helpless_," said Kirley, swaying slightly. "And the next card is Cyprian Youdle—rhymes with noodle—"

"Thanks very much," said Daisy, embarrassed. She hurriedly slid Kirley into her bag, out of sight. There was a moment of tense stillness, then Ana cleared throat.

"We—we should probably go," she said. "We'll be late for Charms…"

"Yeah," said Smith. "Astronomy next, for us…"

And the group went their separate ways, frog marching Scor and Peter to their next classes.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

By lunch, Scor was still in foul mood, though as this only consisted of him being uncharacteristically quiet, no one but Al seemed to notice. With the Flying Lesson that afternoon looming closer, Ana more than made up for Scor's silence.

"But—but what if I can't hold on tightly enough, and slide sideways so I'm hanging upside down? Or what if I slide _backward_—oh, Merlin…" She grimaced at her empty plate, her face pale.

"You'll be _fine_," said Al, for what seemed like the thousandth. "Coach Wood probably won't let us a metre off the ground."

"How do you do that, though?" said Ana. "How do you tell the broom where you want to go?"

"You just—you sort of guide the handle up or down, right or left…" Al trailed off, not really knowing how to describe broom function. He had been so young when he learned, he could not really remember how he had been taught.

"But what if I—"

"Just stop worrying, Ana," muttered Scor. "Or stop worrying _aloud_, at least—you'll jinx yourself."

"Never fear, Ana," said Argil, shooting a grin at Abbey, who grudgingly smiled in return. "If you fall, Abbey will catch you!"

"She's not going to fall," Al protested.

"All this talk's making _me_ nervous," grumbled Scor, prodding at the steamed vegetables. He pushed away the plate, resting his head on his folded arms. "I feel sick."

"Ana, see what you've done?" said Argil jokingly.

"Are you okay?" Ana asked Scor. He nodded, face hidden the crook of his elbow. "I didn't mean to make you nervous as well. I just—I think I may even be scared of heights. I get woozy looking out of high windows and everything."

"Why don't _you_ take the Besen broom, then?" Al asked her quietly. He had only told Ana about James' tip, though Scor also knew about it, as he had been sitting on Al's other side during supper that evening.

"I don't know," Ana replied. "I think I'd feel better on the slower brooms." She shook head, chuckling weakly. "Plus, maybe no one will notice what an awful flyer I am if I'm on a really awful broom."

"You'll be fine," Al repeated.

"So there we were, almost at the summit," Argil was saying. "And my Breathing Bubble pops—" He snapped his fingers. "Just like that, no more air! Felt like my lungs were turning inside out—"

"How did you stay on your broom?" asked Danica, wide-eyed. Argil ducked his head, as though she had caught him in lie.

"Well, I—I wasn't exactly riding the broom myself, you see… I was only about six when we visited the Himalayas, so I was pretty well secured to my father's back—"

"But still," said Danica gravely.

"Yeah," said Argil, encouraged. "Yeah, it was pretty scary, you know. The tour guide saw me in time, recast the charm and everything, but I had nightmares for _ages_—waking up thinking I couldn't breathe…"

Argil had been regaling them all with his flying adventures since Saturday. Abbey and Matthias were equally eager to share their stories, though theirs tended to be more conventional than Argil's.

"Mum couldn't afford much, raising me on her own—but she made her presents count," Matthias had said Monday, during breakfast. "Bought me an Asteroid 2k when I was seven, and I _lived_ on that broom. Flew all over, dodging trees and spooking Muggles." He smiled reminiscently.

Abbey, it seemed, was the only one of them with any formal training. "Dad was set on me keeping up with my brothers," she had said, tightening her ponytail. "I was doing loop-the-loops around them by the time I was nine."

Al hadn't said much on the subject, out of consideration for Ana, aside from answering the odd question that came his way—what broom he used, how often he flew at home, what team he supported.

"The Harpies, of course," Al said, when Argil had asked the latter. "Mum would throw me out, otherwise."

"She flew for them, didn't she?" said Abbey, impressed. At Al's nod, Argil whistled.

"Bet you know you're way around a Quidditch pitch, then," he said.

Al had shrugged. Both of his parents taught he and James to fly around the same time—when he was five, James six. He barely remembered those first lessons, though he recalled knowing early on that he and his brother were very different flyers. As they'd grown, their parents were always careful to claim they were _both_ naturals on a broom—something that seemed to frustrate James to no end. He had eventually resorted to the specific approach—forcing Al into races, for instance—so their father would have to admit that James was _faster_, prompting their mother to point out Al had better _control_.

When it came to death defying antics on a broomstick, he had no problem handing the medal to James. Al did not care to know for sure how long he could hold a dive, pulling up at the last millisecond to leave the grass cowering in fright below. By most standards, his brother _was_ better—and stupider. Al had yet to break any bones in flying-related accidents, while James could boast—and did—of an assortment of gruesome injuries.

Their parents said Al was just cautious. James said Al was just a pansy. When Al was on his broom, he did not much care what any of them said—he was _flying_.

"Three and half hours 'til we're off the ground!" said Argil, checking his watch. Much to Sarah-May's horror, Abbey giggled. Al fought to smother a grin, as it rather conflicted with the commiserating look he was sending Ana.

"It's fine," she said, her tone that of martyr. "I know you're secretly excited."

"Sorry," said Al, a smiling breaking across his face.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Double Herbology seemed to go on forever that afternoon, the Slytherins glancing every few minutes at the front lawn through the glass walls of the greenhouse. Professor Longbottom had set them to identifying an endless array of herbs, sticking the correct name-posts in each. It was not the most exhilarating of tasks, and by the time he dismissed the class, Al and his housemates were the first out the door, hurrying to the dorms to drop off their bags. Al hastily waved to the professor as he left, Ana trailing reluctantly behind.

The Slytherin and Ravenclaw first years gathered in front of school well before four thirty, watching as Coach Wood levitated a collection of dusty, cobwebbed broomsticks from the Quidditch shed to where they stood.

"Those are filthy," muttered Argil, wrinkling his nose.

"Right, then," said Coach Wood, calling for their attention. "Good to see such eager flyers! I'm Coach Wood, and I'm assuming you're Slytherin and Ravenclaw?" At their nods of agreement, he clapped his hands. "Well! If everyone's here already, why don't we start early?"

"Yeah!" they chorused.

"Excellent. Here are the brooms—they're old, but they fly well enough. If you'll all just grab one from the pile…"

Hesitantly, they crowded around the grimy brooms. No one seemed overly enthusiastic about touching the things. Scanning the handles, Al spotted one with _Besen_ written in wide letters along the side, and dislodged it from the heap. He hefted the broom in his hand, pleased—it wasn't nearly as dirty as some of the others.

As Wood arranged them in a large circle around him, Al noticed other students streaming out of the school to enjoy the mild autumn weather. A group was clustering by the steps, observing the Flying Lesson.

"Everyone's brooms on the ground? Right—hold out your hand, and on three, everyone say, 'UP!' When they were all standing as directed, Wood counted: "One… two…three!"

"Up!" everyone said. About half the broom did as they were told, flying up into the students' hands. Some twitched and rolled over. Others, like Al's, did not respond at all.

"If yours is a bit hard of hearing, pick it up yourself," said Wood. "Now, everyone mount your brooms!" He went around the circle, checking forms and grips. Arrayed about the lawn, the older students were watching them curiously.

"I recognize this stance!" said Wood, moving from Scor to Al. "How is your old Dad?"

"He's good," said Al.

"Good as your grip, I hope!" said Wood, going on to Ana. Satisfied, he returned to the center. "On three, I want to push off the ground—" Crouching, he leapt high to demonstrate. "—rise a bit by angling the handle up, then tilt in down to descend. Keep it simple to start, yeah?"

Abbey rolled her eyes.

"Ready? One… two…"

Al bent his knees.

"Three!"

He jumped, launching himself into the air. Al felt the familiar, brief moment of weightlessness in his stomach, and tucked his legs under, ready for the broom to take over.

Only the brief moment lasted longer than it should have—his heart shot into his throat and he was falling, sinking backward, his hands having pulled the handle too far up, anticipating flight. Yanking the broom to him in desperation, the handle stuck his forehead with a dull _thunk_, and he hit the ground hard.

Dazed, flat on his back, he saw distant faces peering down at him from the air. Untangling himself from the broom, he heard a strange noise rolling across the lawn, and looked round to see James, doubled over in hysterics, standing in front the laughing students by the front steps.

Two dull thuds on either side, then Ana and Scor were there, blocking his view of the stairs. Staring up at them, he felt his eyes prickling—it was just—his head really hurt, and—Al blinked furiously, nostrils flared, a sharp panic rising in his chest. He couldn't _cry_, not on top of every—

Vision swimming, Al thought he saw a wand directed at his face, heard Scor mumble something—and suddenly his eyes were bone dry. The burning beneath his lids had disappeared, and Ana was gripping his elbow, helping him stand.

"What happened here?" said Wood, voice loud in Al's ears. "You all right, Potter?"

Taking a deep breath, Al relaxed his face and turned around, nodding. The rest of the class was descending to the ground, landing with varying levels of grace. They were all watching Wood, as the Flying Instructor examined Al's broom.

"What's this?" Wood exclaimed, tapping at the _Besen_ label with his wand. "A Sticking Charm!" Murmuring, he ran his wand over the handle. "This is nothing but a Muggle broom! You wait here, Potter, I'll fetch you another—don't know _how_ this could've…"

As Wood jogged to the pile of remaining brooms, Al eyed his classmates with trepidation. No one seemed amused by the situation, though—not even the Ravenclaws, who were glancing with bemusement between Al and the front of the school, where Al figured James and his friends were assembled.

He didn't know for sure, as he forbid himself from looking.

"Don't—don't worry, Al," muttered Ana. Her hand, tight on his elbow, was shaking. "We'll get him. We'll get him so bad he won't know _what_—" She broke off, growling under her breath.

Al, still a bit in shock, did not know quite what to make of this new, feral Ana. Patting her hand, he blinked a few times. His eyes were uncomfortably dry.

"Scor," he said. Scor was standing a bit behind him, but Al couldn't turn around or he would see his brother. Whether Scor knew this or not, he came round to Al's front. "What was—? I mean, thanks, but—"

"Er, don't thank me yet," said Scor, laughing nervously. "I've never done that spell before—I only saw Father once do it for Mother when we were visiting my grandparents this summer, because he knows she hates looking weak in front of Grandfather—"

"What'd you do?" asked Al.

"I—erm… I dehydrated your tear ducts, I think," Scor blurted. "It should wear off in a while—it did for Mother!"

"Here's a broom, Potter," said Wood, handing him something old and rickety. Al glimpsed a spider dangling off the end. "You ready to try flying?"

"I—yeah," said Al shortly. He didn't need to _try_ flying—he _could_ fly. He was very _good_ at flying. Stupid, sodding _James_…

"Right—everyone! Back in position," called Wood.

As Al mounted the ancient broom, he felt a sliver of fear slice his gut, and thought he might've cried again if Scor hadn't turned his eyes to parchment. Viciously, he shoved the memory of falling aside. He'd _never_ been afraid of flying. He _wasn't_ afraid of flying.

Stupid James.

Al hated him.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Disclaimer: These are JKR's characters and their imagined offspring, and I'm not the boss of any of them.

A/N: The riddle in this chapter is from The Universe in a Handkercheif, Lewis Carroll's Mathematical Recreations, Games, Puzzles, and Word Plays by Martin Gardner


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

In the weeks following The Flying Lesson, as Al referred to it in his head, a strange sort of understanding settled between he, Ana and Scor. No one mentioned James' prank directly, but the fact of it accompanied Al wherever he went, sitting silently beside him in class and during meals, resting on his pillow as a parting thought when he lay down to sleep. To a lesser extent, Ana and Scor seemed aware of its presence as well, so that the subject of retaliation worked its way into almost every conversation, no matter what they were discussing.

"Al, I don't understand number six—what's Stebbins on about?"

"He wants us to talk about the differences in wand motion from one moving charm to another."

"Why doesn't he just _say_ that, then?" said Ana, exasperated.

Scor stirred from his contemplation of the flickering fireplace across the common room. "You were pretty good with that Sliding Charm last week, weren't you?" he asked, leaning toward Al.

"I suppose," said Al. Stebbins hadn't commented on it, but Stebbins never said much to him, having determined Al's delinquency in the first week of term.

"You were," Scor confirmed. "I wonder… maybe if you aimed one at the floor when he's carrying something heavy…"

Ana's eyes lit up, her Charms homework forgotten. "Or doing one of his awful impressions!"

"Or at the top of the Grand Staircase," said Al, affecting a dreamy voice. "Nah. Don't want to kill him, do I?"

"Your parents might not like that," Ana agreed.

All told, they had about a dozen means of retribution floating around, waiting patiently for realization. What they lacked was opportunity—Al only ever saw his brother during meals, and when James wasn't in class or the Gryffindor common room, he was on the Quidditch pitch, surrounded by his teammates.

So Al bided his time, and took comfort in knowing his vengeance would be sweet, if not particularly swift. Besides, he had other things to think about—his studies, for example. Solving riddles, for another—since word had spread to the rest of the first and second years, he had plenty of those to occupy his mind. He was owling his mother about once a week, telling her about his teachers, his favorite classes. He wrote sparingly about his friends, focusing mainly on Argil, who he judged objectively to be the most interesting—and least controversial—of the lot.

It wasn't necessarily a lie, he reasoned, because Argil _was_ his friend. They were partners in Potions, and had even taken to going to the library after Kalna's classes on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, to write up their lab while the potion was fresh in their minds. Which is why on the first Tuesday in October, Al and Argil were huddled at a rarely used table, deep in the History section.

"What was the third ingredient?" Al mumbled, flipping through his Potions text.

"Dried nettles, wasn't it?" said Argil. He scanned number three in his Procedure section. "Yeah—dried nettles, added individually."

"Thanks."

Their Soothing Solution last period had turned out well enough, but Kalna had assigned a few additional questions to answer in their written analysis. Al was lagging behind Argil in the write-up, hoping he would be able to glean the answers off his partner without him noticing.

"Where are our observations?" said Argil. He leafed through the parchment scattered between them.

"Erm…" said Al, reaching for his book bag. "I think I've got them—" He pulled a sheaf of paper from among the books, dislodging a small, laminated square that slid, spinning, across the table.

It came to a stop against Argil's notes, Merlin swaying dizzily, one hand gripping a dank rock wall behind him. Argil picked up the card, peering down at the legendary wizard.

"Still under the lake?" He handed the card back to Al, who traded the card for their stack of scribbled notes.

"I meant to give it back to Cauldwell in Defense, but I forgot."

"You solved it? Let's hear it, then," said Argil, grinning.

Al shrugged, reciting: "Without fingers, points; without hands, strikes; without feet, runs."

Argil squinted. "I give up," he said.

"You didn't even try."

"I said I wanted to hear it, not think about it!"

Al laughed. "All right, fine. It's a clock."

"Ooh, I get it," said Argil, slapping his book. "That's a good one."

"I guess," said Al. "It was easier than some of the others."

"How many have you solved?" asked Argil.

"I dunno," Al lied. Merlin made twenty-one. "A lot last week. I got a few from some second and third years, even. I don't think anyone older than that's really interested."

Argil snorted his agreement. "Probably because they know the prize is something stupid."

"How do _you_ know the prize is something stupid?"

"You think so, too," said Argil. "You don't want the prize. I've seen you—half the time you don't even ask for the _Word_ or whatever they're calling it. Anyway…" Argil lowered his voice. "Like I said before, my father knows the owner of Chocolate Critters—my family's done business with the Glykerias for years."

"Who?"

"The Glykerias! Oldest wizarding family in Greece—and the richest, since they started making candy. I think Scor's related to them, somehow…" Argil paused, brow furrowed, then shook his head.

"I can't remember," he said. "But my parents visited Madam Glykeria at her estate on Lemnos, right after she inherited the company last year, and—Al, she's _mad_. The sweetest witch you could hope to meet, my father said, but barking mad."

"What do you mean?" asked Al, wide eyed.

"Well, as her guests, you know, they brought gifts—they've visited loads of people all over, and they always bring a gift. Only Madam Glykeria insisted she give them a gift as well—Mother said it's tradition there—and led them to this massive room, right? Filled to the brim with all sorts of things. Half the stuff my parents had never seen before—and there's not a lot my parents haven't seen!"

"What was it, then?"

"_Muggle_ stuff," said Argil, nodding meaningfully. "All of it! She had pictures that didn't move except in this big frame on the wall, weird things that lit up and made noise when you when turned a knob or pressed a button. She even had a huge, shiny… whatsit? A hoover car?"

"Hover car!" said Al excitedly. Hector had told him about those last Christmas, but he'd said they were still in development…

"So she tells my parents to pick something, as their gift!" said Argil. The librarian, Ms. Towler, shushed them from somewhere beyond the shelves.

"What'd they choose?" Al whispered.

"Well, it wasn't like she'd explained what any of it _was_," Argil said quietly. "'Cause of course _everyone_ collects Muggle junk in their spare time. So my father just pointed to whatever was closest. A 'Tennis Machine,' as it turned out." Argil waved a hand, trying to explain. "It's this—"

"I know what it is," said Al, chuckling.

"How's that?" asked Argil.

"Muggle relatives. We see them a few times a year." Al grinned ruefully. "And my grandfather is a bit of Muggle junk collector, himself."

"Oh!" said Argil, embarrassed. "Erm—I didn't mean to call him—"

"No, he's a bit mad, as well," said Al, brushing aside Argil's concern.

"…You see what I mean about the prize, though?" said Argil, after a moment.

"Yeah," said Al. "You're thinking it's probably a lawn mower."

"A what, now?"

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

The following night, high atop the Astronomy Tower, Al had just returned Merlin to Oz Cauldwell when Rose stomped through the doorway, accompanied by Harrison Drake and Colleen Creevey, who looked rather awestruck.

"All right, Rose?" said Al, as she sat down at her usual workbench.

"Fine," she spat.

"Oh, good—just checking," he said lightly, returning to his seat next to Scor.

"Sorry," she grumbled. "Just—James."

Al paused. Did she know about the prank, finally? He had hoped James had sense enough to keep Rose from hearing about it—Al didn't want her playing peacemaker again. He wanted to take care of things his way.

"What about him?" he asked.

"You'd think he'd won them the Cup, or something, and not one measly game," she said, yanking book and parchment out of her bag. "He's been strutting around like he's royalty, _so _pleased with himself, and then just now in the Common Room—" She took a deep breath, calming herself. "Just now in the Common Room, he tried to make us _move_, said Harrison was in his seat, and then that Robbie Vane _suggested_ Colleen clear off."

"Did you?" Al glanced at Harrison and Colleen, who were shaking their heads, grinning wide.

"No!" said Rose indignantly. "Colleen was about to, but I took my ink bottle and dumped it on James' head. I have been putting up with his peacock act _all week_—"

She whipped around with a glare—Scor had let out a laugh. Al was barely stifling a smile.

"Sorry," said Al, schooling his expression.

"It wasn't funny at all," said Rose, facing forward. "Something needs to be done!"

"I agree," said Scor, nodding. He turned toward Al, murmuring: "Drop him in a _vat_ of ink?"

"Only where would we find a vat?" asked Al, adjusting the height of his telescope.

"Your cousin's all right," said Scor.

"Yeah."

Sinistra appeared at the top of the tower staircase, and the class fell silent.

"During tonight's survey of the sky," she said, as she strode around the circle of benches, handing each of them a blank star map. "You will _not_ be distracted by the Muggles currently leaping around on the moon. You will not make jokes concerning their absurd space outfits or speculate as to the purpose of their elaborate machinery."

There was a squeaking of metal joints as every telescope was immediately aimed at the moon. Sinistra sighed.

"Will you look at them!" someone exclaimed. "They're like yetis with fish bowls on their heads!"

This was an accurate description, thought Al, peering through his own telescope. One of the Muggles seemed to be drilling into ground, another fiddling with the controls on a large device with blinking lights.

"Please do not force me to disable your Magnifying Charms," said Sinistra wearily.

"I think I see one bopping round in a little cart," said Scor, chuckling.

"I just saw one fall in a ditch!" crowed Matthias.

"Very well!" called Sinistra.

The moon through Al's telescope abruptly receded, shrinking back to a pale orb of shadowed craters. The numbers around the perimeter of the lens, listing the coordinates of the current view, remained.

Amid the outcry from her students, Sinistra cleared her throat.

"You may spy on Space Muggles on your own time—I will restore the Charms at the end of class. _During_ class, you will kindly sketch your survey, to be labeled and handed in on Monday."

"Grim bat," Scor muttered.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Between riddles, homework, and plans of revenge, Al almost forgot about Teddy's visit, fast approaching on Sunday. Al had written him back the night of The Flying Lesson—a curt reply, he realized now, as he's been in no shape to convey enthusiasm.

Friday morning, a tawny owl dropped a folded note on Al's plate. He snatched it up, saving the parchment from a greasy bath, and smiled at the signature scrawled along the bottom.

"Your god-brother?" Ana guessed.

Al nodded, scanning the note. "He wants me to meet him at noon…" He frowned. "…By the lake?"

"Come alone," Ana intoned.

Al laughed. "Must be to do with want he wants to give me."

He was still grinning when they left for the Entrance Hall, where Scor was waiting by the Grand Staircase, half asleep. As had become their habit, Al handed him some toast he'd saved from breakfast.

"I don't understand how you survive until lunch on a slice of bread," said Ana, shaking her head as they trudged up the stairs.

Scor chewed, crumbs sticking down the front of his robes. Al wondered if Scor had even heard her—it was difficult to tell, some mornings. Yesterday, he hadn't said a word all through first period. As they reached the first floor Defense corridor, however, Scor swallowed his last bite and spoke, voice scratchy:

"'M thirsty."

"See, that's what's nice about going to breakfast," said Al. "Lots to drink."

"No—wait." Scor hopped up and down a few times, eyes squeezed closed. When he opened them, he seemed much more awake.

"Why don't you do that everyday?" asked Al.

"Doesn't always work," said Scor. "Just had an idea. Hold on…" He backed away a few steps. When he drew out his wand, Al wished he'd back away a few more—Scor, magic, and mornings did not go together especially well.

"Er, Scor—"

"No, don't worry!" said Scor, waving his free hand. "I saw Alan Derrick doing it in the common room last night. What was the spell?" He stared at the wall, nose wrinkled in thought. "Stilli—stillici—" He jumped. "I got it! I got it—watch!"

He pointed his wand upward, aiming above his head. "_Stillicidio!_"

From the tip of his wand shot a round, shimmering water globule. It rose above him, seeming to hover for a moment before plummeting downward. Scor opened his mouth wide, and the water landed with a splash on his waiting tongue.

Al and Ana stared. Scor grinned at them expectantly, wiping his chin dry with his sleeve. Al was busy trying to imagine Alan Derrick—the big, tough, fifth year—performing that particular trick.

"Come on—that was _brilliant_," said Scor. "Got it on my first try!"

"Bravo," said Ana dryly.

"Don't make me stillicidio your _face_," said Scor, brandishing his wand.

"There will be no dousing of classmates, today."

They all turned to see Professor Crowburn standing directly behind them, a stack of parchment tucked in the crook of his arm.

"Are those our essays?" asked Scor.

"Why don't we take our seats and find out?" Crowburn suggested, herding them into the classroom. The rest of the class was already there, talking among themselves, though they quieted at the sight of the professor.

Only took us a month to catch on, thought Al.

"At the end of the double period, I will return your essays from last week," said Crowburn, setting the stack of parchment tantalizingly on the front corner of his desk. He lowered himself into his chair, assuming his Discussion Stance.

"This morning, I would like you to tell me about Haunted Houses," he began, fiddling with a quill. "First, under what circumstances is a house termed 'haunted,' and second, is our general perception of such places justified, or informed by learned fears and stereotypes? Are we, in fact, in a Haunted House as we speak?" Examining the quill, he added, "Unless you have a better idea, Mr. Hooper?"

At the sound of his name, George Hooper went rigid in his desk, where he was quite obviously hiding something. Cringing, he looked up at the professor.

"Mr. Hooper," said Crowburn, disappointed. "If I didn't know you were up to something before, I certainly do now. You are radiant with guilt."

"Y—Yes, Professor," said Hooper, looking lost, hand glued to his desktop. "I mean, sorry, Professor. Sir."

"This is the third Chocolate Frog Card to interrupt my class this week," said Crowburn. "If that is, indeed, what you are covering with your hand?"

Coloring rising to his cheeks, Hooper nodded.

"Yes," said Crowburn, tipping his head in return. "Perhaps I should give way to the unavoidable. What do you think, Mr. Hooper?"

"Well, I—erm. Yes?"

"All right—which card is it?"

Not quite believing his luck, Hooper lifted his hand, revealing the card. "Ignatia Wildsmith, sir."

"Who here knows what Ms. Wildsmith is famous for?" asked Crowburn, darting a glance around the room. "Miss Weasley?"

Rose had tentatively raised her hand. "Wasn't she—didn't she invent Floo Powder?"

"Very good, Miss Weasley. Five points to Gryffindor," said Crowburn. He twirled his wand between his fingers, like drum major's baton. "Have you heard the riddle, Mr. Hooper?"

"Yes, sir," said Hooper, jumping in his seat. "I've got it here, sir."

"Read it aloud, would you?"

Clearing his throat, Hooper complied:

"A man is trapped in a room where the only possible exits are two doors. Through the first door is room constructed from magnifying glass. The blazing sun instantly fries anyone or anything that enters. Through the second door there is a fire-breathing dragon. How does the man escape?"

Crowburn smiled at his wand, still spinning. "Has anyone solved this one yet?"

The class collectively shook their heads, some students glancing at Al for confirmation—but he'd never come across the riddle, either.

"Very well," said Crowburn. With a final twirl, he set his wand back on the desk. "You all have an hour and half to figure it out. Whoever is the first to answer correctly will earn their House… twenty points?"

"Fifty!" called Argil from behind Al, nudging his shoulder.

"No way!" protested Oz Cauldwell. "The Slytherins have Potter!"

"…We do," Crowburn agreed, glancing at Al.

"Well, Potter's sure to get it, isn't he?"

"Is he?" asked Crowburn.

Al felt the blood rushing to his face as his classmates verified the claim. Crowburn was squinting at him inquisitively, his mouth curling up at the corners.

"Just to make things interesting," said the professor. The class immediately hushed. "If Potter solves the riddle—twenty points. If anyone _else_ solves the riddle… fifty points."

The class let out a gasp.

"That's fair!" said Cauldwell.

Crowburn flicked his wand, spelling the riddle onto the blackboard.

"Begin."

Hands flew in the air, and for a time the classroom was chaotic with guesses. Poor Ignatia Wildsmith, quite overwhelmed by all the noise, took refuge under her chair, shouting "No!" to each solution sent her way.

"You get a broom and outfly the dragon!"

"You cast a Fogging Charm on the glass!"

"Forget the doors—you blast through one of the walls!"

Al waited about half an hour before writing the answer on a scrap of parchment and rolling it into a tight scroll. When he was certain no one was looking, he dropped the scroll to the floor. A slight sweep of his foot sent the answer whispering along the flagstones, coming to stop against a shoe below the desk behind him.

A few minutes later, Scor made a grand show of his epiphany.

"I've got it—of course!" he exclaimed, vaulting out of his seat. "If the sun's the only thing keeping you away, you hang around 'til nightfall, then escape through the first door!"

"Ms. Wildsmith?" Crowburn asked the card.

"That is the answer," she said, falling into her chair with relief. "The—the Word is 'little'—"

Grumbling, the Gryffindor wrote down the clue.

"—And the next card… the next card is Harry Potter."

Al slid down in his seat as all eyes turned his way. Rose was looking back and forth between he and Scor, brow arched.

"It just came to me!" Scor was telling the other Slytherins, accepting their praise.

"That was fun," said Crowburn. "Fifty points to Slytherin, as per our agreement—Do bring another card to class, Mr. Hooper." The Gryffindors deflated. With a sigh, Rose faced forward. "And now, if you are not either too downtrodden or flushed with victory, I would like us to return our attention to the matter of Haunted Houses…"

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Sunday afternoon found most of the students outdoors, enjoying the last of the mild autumn weather before the cold wind and rain arrived. As Al's watch ticked twelve o'clock, he slipped away from the Slytherin first years lounging in the sun between the greenhouses, scanning the lakeside for any Teddy-shaped figures.

By the time he reached the opposite shore, it was well past noon, and still no sign of Teddy. Glancing around once more, Al made his way to a large, moss-covered rock on the edge of the water, leaning against it to wait.

"Hey, kid—this is my rock."

"Wha—?"

Al looked up to find a scrawny, brown-haired boy glaring at him, perched high atop the boulder. He was wondered how he could've missed him before, when he noticed the boy had strangely… yellow eyes.

"Teddy!" he exclaimed.

"Aw!" the boy whined. He seemed to expand, face stretching, until the usual Teddy was frowning down at him. "How'd you know it was me?"

"The eyes." Al clambered onto the rock, settling next to Teddy. "You always have weird eyes."

Teddy huffed, propping his chin in his palm. "My instructor said the same thing, the other day! I never remember the eyes."

"They were yellow, just now."

"Were they? They kind of choose for themselves, you know, when I forget to."

Al hummed. "Your hair's different."

"Nah," said Teddy, grinning. He tugged at a few long, dark strands. "I just don't want the others to recognize me. No time for a party, I'm afraid. Can't stay long."

"Oh," said Al.

"So, in the interest of time—rapid-fire update!"

"Erm, okay…"

"Favorite class?" Teddy asked.

"Defense."

"With Crowburn? Yeah, he had quite a following, I remember… Favorite teacher?"

"Longbottom," said Al.

"So loyal, Al! No, Longbottom's a good bloke. Favorite supper?"

"The shepherd's pie."

"Favorite—oh," Teddy frowned. "I was going to ask what's your favorite chair, but I've never been in the Slytherin common room…" He shrugged. "Good chairs, down there?"

"Really nice, leather ones," said Al.

"Got a favorite?"

"Er…" Al had only recently started venturing into the common room. "The one by the fire?"

"Sounds good to me! What else? Oh!" Teddy smiled. "Friends? I'd ask for your favorite, but that seems a bit mean."

"I've got a few," said Al awkwardly. "Erm, they're really nice—"

Teddy laughed. "—Leather ones?"

"No."

"Wooden?"

"Teddy!" Al rolled his eyes.

"Okay, okay." Chuckling, Teddy reached into his pocket. "I'll stop stalling."

"What is it?" asked Al.

"This, young Albus, will change your life. Your dad gave it to me when I was in school, and now I—" He held out a worn, folded piece of parchment. "—Give it to you."

Al stared, wide-eyed. "Is that…?"

"Yep," said Teddy. "Got me out of more trouble than I can tell—or _into_, I suppose, depending on how you look at it."

Carefully, Al took the Marauder's Map, holding it reverently in both hands. "But why—why are giving it to me, and not…?"

"James?" finished Teddy. "I figured that wouldn't really be fair, him having the cloak _and_ the—"

"_James_ has got the cloak?" Al exclaimed.

"And Merlin help the school!"

"He's got the—so that's how he…" It had never made sense, how James had managed to sneak into the secured broom shed without anyone noticing—but if he had an Invisibility Cloak… it would have been easy, just by following Coach Wood…

"Al?" said Teddy, peering at him with concern. "You all right?"

"I—yeah," said Al. "James just—did something."

"Ah," said Teddy. "Do I want to know?"

"It's fine," said Al, unfolding the Map. It was soft, almost fragile with age. "I'm taking care of it."

"Already have something in mind?" asked Teddy.

"Yeah," said Al, a slow grin spreading across his face. "And I think this will help."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

A/N: The first riddle is an old Finnish one; the second was found here: Thanks to Jonny for the beta :)

A/N II: Gah! So sorry this chapter's late! Uni started up again this past week—I'd forgotten how time-consuming lectures are :/ But I promise, I WILL be keeping up from now on!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The first week of November, Al was inundated with riddles. All from first to third years,

as far as he could tell—except the first year Ravenclaws, whom he was still trying to win over. Even Ana had discreetly slid him a card during History of Magic.

Not that this came as any real surprise. That Tuesday, the Great Hall had been a twitter with live bats, the walls adorned with black streamers, every table overflowing with sweets for the Halloween Feast—and flanking the double door, ceramic jars filled with Chocolate Frogs.

"Courtesy of the Chocolate Critters Company!" Headmistress Sprout had announced, entreating the students to help themselves.

Matthias and Paul once more had a supply of Frogs stockpiled in their dormitory, and Al had spent the next few days solving card after card for his classmates.

"You should start charging people," Argil had advised on Wednesday, in the library.

Al glanced up from the card he'd been idly pondering, going back and forth between it and the duplicating spell he'd been practicing over the past few weeks.

"Then they'd stop coming to me," he said, examining his replicated quill. "Most of these aren't _that_ hard. Everyone's just…"

"Lazy?" Argil finished with a laugh.

"This one's pretty bad, though," Al admitted. He flicked the card with the quill's nib.

"Who've you got?" Argil asked. Leaning forward, he recoiled a moment later, the good humor gone from his face.

"All right?" said Al.

"Erm—it's just—er…" Argil eyed the card warily. "Nightmares I used to… have."

Al looked down at the enchantress calmly braiding her hair by the shore of an island. "About Circe?"

"It's nothing," said Argil, grabbing his quill. "We just—we went to Aenea a few years ago and I—well, I don't know if it was her, but one of our tour group went missing, and…"

Al raised his eyebrows.

"And the next night we had pork for supper!"

"…Oh," said Al. "So, you think it was—"

"Mr. Schwein!" exclaimed Argil, staring tragically at his parchment. "That's what she does, isn't it? I didn't sleep a wink the whole time we were there, and when we got home I kept thinking she was in my room, waiting for me to fall asleep so she could turn me into a pig!"

Al made a calming motion with his hand, hoping the librarian wasn't nearby.

"Sorry," said Argil quietly, seeming to pull himself together.

"You… have nightmares a lot?" Al asked. He recalled a similar ending to Argil's tale of Mount Everest.

Argil shrugged, fiddling with his lab report. "Everyone has nightmares."

"Yeah, but—"

"It's nothing," said Argil. "What's—er, what's the riddle? You said it was tough?"

Letting the topic drop, Al unfolded the parchment where he'd scribbled the riddle that afternoon, when Miranda Bobbin-Small had bestowed the card on him.

"It sounds like a math problem, but these things never are," he said. Clearing his throat, he read aloud: "A hundred and one by fifty divide, and if a cipher is rightly applied, the answer is one from nine."

A beat a silence, during which Argil seemed to regret his change of subjects.

"O-kay," he said, perplexed. "First, what's a cipher?"

"No idea," said Al. "And you can't divide a hundred and one by fifty. One from nine could be eight, I suppose…"

"Have you tried that?"

"Well, I don't think…" Al trailed off, contemplating Circe, who was sunning herself on a flat rock. "Erm, Circe?"

Circe turned, squinting in the sun.

"It's not 'eight,' is it?"

She shook her head and lay back again, closing her eyes.

Al looked around. "You got a dictionary?"

"Ms. Towler's got one by her desk, I think," said Argil.

"I'll be right back," said Al, standing up.

"Wait!" Argil was glancing between the card, still lying on the table, and Al. "Erm, could you—do you mind…?"

"Gil," said Al, disbelieving.

"I know!" said Argil, slumping in his chair. "I just—please?"

With an exasperated sigh, Al grabbed the card and shoved it in his pocket, out of sight. Making his way to the front desk, he saw a massive, dusty dictionary set upon a lectern, lit by a stout candle mounted just above. Flipping to the Cs, he found:

_**cipher**__ ˈsīfər (also__** cypher**_

_noun_

_**1 **__a secret or disguised way of writing; a code._

• _a thing written in such a code._

• _a key to such a code._

_**2 **__**dated**__a zero; a figure 0…_

There was more, but Al had his answer—if there was a zero, that probably meant there was an O, and if there was an O, he was meant to be spelling something.

_A hundred and one by fifty divide…_

Contemplating the old tome, his eyes fell on the lettering along the bottom of the page.

_CCXV_

It was the page number. X meant ten, and V meant five—was C a hundred? Running through the riddle in his mind, he replaced the numbers with Roman numerals. One was I… but what was fifty?

Digging in his pocket for a scrap of parchment, he took a quill from the front desk and wrote C, I, and O, leaving space in between. Slowly he leafed forward in the dictionary, watching the letters change.

_CCXXI… CCXXXIV… CCLVII…_

There! Fifty was an L—so that left him with… _by fifty divide_… He put the L between the C and I.

CLIO.

That was the name of Victoire's cat… she named it after the Muse, she said. Flipping back to the Cs, Al ran a finger down the page, landing on:

_Clio__ˈ__klīō; __ˈ__klēō _

_**1 **__**Greek & Roman Mythology**__the Muse of history; one __of nine goddesses—_

That's it! he thought, biting down on a grin. The answer is one from nine!

"Please, tell me you're not reading the dictionary."

He turned to see Scor approaching, a book tucked under his arm. Al shrugged, shoving the parchment back in his pocket and returning the quill to its stand.

"Oh, I get it," said Scor, noting Al's expression. "Solve a riddle? Cause you're wearing your Secret Winner Face."

"My _what_ face?"

"The thing you do when you're really pleased with yourself but don't want anyone to know," Scor explained. "So your mouth does this hiding-a-smile thing." Before Al could respond, Scor went on, opening the book: "I found the spell we want for Plan E."

Al rolled his eyes and headed back to the History section, Scor trailing behind.

"We're not doing Plan E," he said. "And where do you even _find_ a wedgie curse?"

"Just in case!" said Scor. "I've got a whole list of good ones here in _Juvenile Jinxes and Humorous Hexes_, and what with your—erm…_Parchment_, we'll be getting him back any day now, I can _feel_ it—"

"What's he feeling?" asked Argil, as they arrived at the table.

"He feels like being quiet," said Al.

"Really?" said Argil, feigning surprise.

Scor spared them each a glare. He pointedly settled himself in a chair, cradling the open book in front of him.

"See if I tell you the Wedgie Jinx now," he said loftily. "Might just _show_ it to you instead."

"Ohh," said Argil with a laugh, glancing at Al. "Best hold onto your pants."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

That Friday on their way to History of Magic, Peter caught up with Al and Ana in the Entrance Hall. Scor, waiting by the grand staircase, tensed and turned away to catch up with Danica, taking the steps two at a time.

"I'm going mad, Al, I swear," said Peter, rifling through his book bag. "This Challenge is just…"

"Challenging?" Ana suggested.

"It's all these bloody bits and pieces!" exclaimed Peter, almost tripping on a step as he waved a stack of parchment. "I've got thirty Words, yeah? And names with each Word for whichever name has the next Word, so I've got to keep track of all _those_ as well—" He shook his head. "Last night I thought I'd lost a page from my notes, tore up the dorm searching for it. And it was under my bed, the whole time!"

Al wondered why Peter was telling him this. Aside from giving Al a card now and then, he and Peter hadn't really talked since September.

"Enough to drive you insane," said Peter. "I've got Words I know go together—'for breakfast' and 'the poor little' and 'well then you'—but it makes no _sense_. Asked Archie if he wants to combine ours, try working as a team, but he's got more Words than I do—says he's doesn't need my help." Peter stared glumly at the flagstones. "He's just miffed I made a mess of the dorm. They all are."

Ah, thought Al. _That's_ why Peter was talking to him.

"Dunno why they're bothered," Peter complained. "The house elves'll fix it right up."

"Erm… right," said Al.

"Anyway," said Peter with a weary sigh. "Got another card here—riddle's something about roots and going up and up but not growing…"

He held out the card, but Al shook his head.

"Solved that one yesterday," he said. This was technically a lie, as he'd heard the riddle before, from Hector. It was from a popular Muggle book—_Hobbit_, or something. "It's 'mountain.' Gwenog Jones?"

"Oh," said Peter, looking disappointed. "Yeah."

"Cheer up," said Ana, patting him on the back. "Al's only come across her the once, haven't you, Al?"

No, he thought. I've gotten Jones at least five… Glancing sidelong, Al caught her fighting a grin.

"Yeah," he said, nodding encouragingly. "Keep that one under wraps, I think she's rare."

"Really?" said Peter, raising the card. "All right…"

He gave the card a shake. Gwenog Jones, napping against her Quidditch broom, straightened with a start.

"Mountain," he said. "What's the Word?"

Wrinkling her nose in disdain, Gwenog took a moment to adjust her robes.

"Country," she said with a sniff. "You want Gifford Ollerton, next."

"Country!" exclaimed Peter, stopping to shuffle through his notes. "A terrible country!"

Not pausing to wait, Al and Ana left him in the middle of the hall, muttering as he reorganized his parchment.

"Bit touched, isn't he?" said Ana. Abruptly, she cocked an ear, her smile fading. "What's that sound?"

Al's reply was blown away as they rounded the corner of the History corridor, brought up short by a screaming wind. He lunged for the statue of Donald the Undead, gripping a marble leg with one hand and looping his other arm around Ana's back, anchoring them in the fierce currents whistling around the hall.

"What's going on?" Ana yelled, barely audible above the roaring air. Her braids were pulled straight back, parallel to the ground.

Eyes streaming, Al peered ahead. Loose parchment and quills were flying everywhere, whipped to a frenzy by what appeared to be two twisters barreling down the long hallway. Students were cowering on the floor, clutching each other, some taking cover behind suits of armor.

Halfway along the hall, Scor was fighting to walk against the wind, trying to make it to the History classroom before the howling columns reached him.

"SCOR!" shouted Al. "GET DOWN!"

Scor couldn't have heard him, but still he looked back—Al glimpsed the confused fear on his face before Scor was thrown aside, caught by the charging cyclones. His face stretched in a yelp as his shoulder collided with the stone wall.

Al tightened his hold on the statue, realizing with frustration that the only teacher nearby was _Binns_. He almost laughed—bloody lot of good that was, a ghost in a windstorm.

The twisters spun closer, and Ana arm's clamped around his chest, bracing herself. Time seemed to slow… the shrieking shafts of wind were almost upon them, but—wait…

Al looked up, brow furrowed. _Time_ wasn't slowing—the storm was. He and Ana watched, bewildered, as the cyclones decelerated, the winds eased, until all that was left were two familiar, auburn-topped figures, revolving on the spot like spent spinning tops.

"_Mer_lin, I'm gonna hurl," groaned Clay, clutching his head. Corey stumbled into him with giggling gasps.

"We did it!" he cheered, lifting an unsteady arm in victory. "First ever Tornado Twins!"

"Needs some work," said Clay, taking in the destruction around them. His eyes fell on Al and Ana, rooted in shock a few feet away. "What's this, though?"

"Well, if it isn't our rogue cousin!" said Corey. Noticing Ana's vice grip, he grinned. "Found yourself a girlfriend, Alie?"

Embarrassed, Ana dropped her arms, stepping away from the twins and behind Al.

"No," said Al coldly. "Just trying not to die, _Corentin_."

"Oi, watch it!" Corey protested, clapping his hands to his ears. "No need for name-calling, coz."

Al glared, gearing up to unleash some _real_ name-calling, when Clay cut him off.

"Easy, Al," he said, pushing Corey down the corridor. "No one got hurt! Just a bit of fun between classes, yeah?"

When his expression only darkened, Clay doubled his efforts to hurry Corey away.

Raucous laughter exploded, echoing back to Al, the moment they were out of sight around the corner.

"Al!" called Ana. She was jogging down the hall to Scor, slumped on the floor against the wall.

Al felt a knock of dread in his stomach. He'd only hit his shoulder, right? Not his—

"…Ow…" Scor moaned, Ana helping him up.

Al relaxed. He was fine—well, he was hurt, but he was fine.

"What the—what happened?"

Peter drew up next to Al, gaping at he debris of paper, feathers and classmates. Along the hall, students were emerging from behind statues and suits of armor, or picking themselves up from the floor.

Peter's sudden presence jarred Al from his stupor—without answering, he started towards Scor and Ana.

"All right?" he asked upon reaching them. His eyes itched in the dust thickening the air, kicked up by the recent gale.

"If by 'all right'—" Scor began, breaking off with a sneeze. He winced, carefully rotating his shoulder. "—you mean 'in a lot of pain'—" He sneezed again. "—ow—"

Ana waved her hand in an attempt to clear the air. "Let's get him to the nurse."

"Should we tell Binns?" asked Al.

Scor laughed. "Like he'll even—" He sneezed. "—know we're missing."

"Then why do we go at all?" Al wondered, taking Scor's arm. He and Ana on either side, Scor limped to the staircase at the end of the hall, followed by other victims of the unnatural disaster.

"I say we don't anymore," said Scor, grimacing every other step. Al guided Scor's arm around his shoulders to relieve the weight. "This is a sign: History is bad."

"All right, then," Al agreed. "No more History of Magic. No more dying of boredom!"

"No more dying of a stone wall to the head!"

"You know," said Ana abruptly. "We could scrap all our plans, throw him to the Tornado Twins, instead."

"No, no, no," said Scor. "This wasn't a sign of possible revenge. This was a sign to skip class. Besides," he added. "I like Plan A."

"You only like it 'cause you came up with it," said Ana, rolling her eyes.

"N-o, I only like it 'cause it's _brilliant_."

"What happened to Plan E?" asked Al.

Scor chuckled evilly. Al bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"Plan E," repeated Scor. "I think I'll save Plan E for someone else."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Despite their many plans and the benefit of the Marauder's Map, November sped along without any comeuppance for James. All the while, Scor kept up his refrain of _Any Day Now,_ so that when Al and Ana met him by the grand staircase one morning, they paid no mind to his insistence that it was no ordinary Thursday.

"It's _today_!" he exclaimed, accepting his toast from Al. "I know it—had this awful dream last night where Ana chopped off his legs with a huge axe, and when I woke up I had this really good feeling!"

"That's sick," said Ana, horrified.

"No! I mean…" Scor shook his head impatiently. "I wasn't happy 'cause of the dream—that was separate. I woke up thinking this would be a good day, _then_ I remembered the dream, and I think they're connected."

"So, it'll be a good day because we're finally doing something to James," Al clarified.

"Yes," said Scor, biting into his toast. "Be funny if it's Ana who does it."

"Sorry, Al," said Ana. "But I refuse to cut off your brother's legs."

"That's okay," said Al understandingly. "None of our Plans have axes, anyway."

The morning, at least, progressed normally: Terwit lost her wand at least twice and emitted a strangled shriek when Anna Gordon unexpectedly raised her hand.

She had jabbed the air rather aggressively, Al supposed.

The following period, Stebbins returned their quizzes from the day before. Al had scored full marks, but as the questions hadn't been particularly difficult he did not view this as an accomplishment. Scoring well on one of Crowburn's quizzes—_that_ was something to feel good about.

Stebbins lectured briefly on Levitation Charms, the topic they'd begun on Monday, then set them to practicing at their desks.

"Erm…" Ana glanced at Stebbins spelling his instructions onto the board. "You try it first."

Al shrugged and directed his wand at the feather. "_Cernerse_."

It lifted into the air, suspended at eye-level. With a flick of his wand, Al broke the spell, and the feather drifted back down.

"Try holding the charm for more than the barest of seconds, Mr. Potter," called Stebbins, strolling the perimeter of the classroom. Al wrinkled his nose at the feather.

Ana took deep breath. "Okay…" She aimed her wand: "_Cernerse?_"

The feather slid sideways, skating on a millimeter of air.

"You do not _ask_ the object to hover, Miss Ana!"

Almost imperceptibly, Ana flinched.

"You _tell_ the object to hover," Stebbins finshed.

"All right?" said Al.

Nodding, Ana tried the spell again.

When the class let out for lunch, Stebbins asked Ana to stay behind for a moment. Al lingered, uncertain whether he should wait inside the room or out. Stebbins, with a pointed stare, decided for him.

"What's he want?" asked Scor, as Al closed the door behind him.

"Dunno. Didn't want me there, though."

"Huh." Scor leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "If we're late to lunch they'll be out of rolls."

"No, they won't," said Al with a snort. "They're never out."

"The basket's always empty when I want one!" said Scor. "I think it's fixed."

"Those sneaky house-elves."

"They send up the food," reasoned Scor. "I reckon they can yank it back down. We should go ask them! The Parchment has the kitchens on it—we could make them give up the rolls."

Al was trying to judge whether Scor was being serious when Ana stepped out of the classroom. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink, lips pursed in a thin line.

"What he'd say?" asked Scor, pushing away from the wall. Ana shook her head, starting ahead of them for the stairs.

"Nothing," she managed, voice thick.

Scor paused as he made to follow her, brows raised. He and Al shared a look—Scor's of alarm, Al's of outrage. What had Stebbins—?

"Ana!" he said, hurrying to catch up with her, Scor in his wake.

She cleared her throat, emitting a strangled laugh. "Really, Al—it's fine. He just wants me to meet with this fifth year for tutoring."

"Tutoring," said Al.

"I'm rubbish at Charms?" she said, as though voicing the obvious.

"Oh," he said. This was news to him. Sure, he had helped her with homework before, but…

"I'm rubbish at Astronomy!" said Scor. "Bet Sinistra's going to give me a tutor any—"

"—Day now," Al finished, prompting a chuckle from Ana.

"She is!" said Scor.

"…Thanks," said Ana, wiping at her eyes.

"Sure," he said. "Er… Want me to dehydrate—"

"No! No, thanks," she said. "My sleeve's fine."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

What with Ana's talk with Stebbins, Double Herbology, and Flying Lessons that afternoon, Al quite forgot about Scor's earlier prediction. It was the first thing that sprang to mind, however, when Scor urgently motioned to him that night in the common room—it was Scor's turn to keep an eye on the Map.

"What?" said Al, sinking into a chair beside him.

Smirking, Scor pointed to a small dot labeled _James Potter_ slowly making its way through a first floor corridor, heading for the grand staircase.

"And…" Scor murmured, tracing his finger along to a second, sedentary dot.

Argus Filch was waiting in the Entrance Hall.

"You think…?" said Al, starting to grin.

"…Plan B?" said Scor with nod.

Al followed James' dot down the stairs, where it came to a stop in front of Filch.

"Let's watch a bit," he said, struggling to stifle his excitement. "Make sure it'll work." He looked around. "Where's Ana?"

Scanning the Map, Scor replied: "In the girls' dorm with… Tamara Higgs." He frowned. "Violet's friend?"

"Her tutor," Al guessed.

"But we need her!" said Scor, eyes flying back to the James dot.

"Maybe not," said Al. "We could handle Plan B with just us."

"But that means I have to—"

"What?" said Al with a grin. "Afraid you're not loud enough?"

Scor looked down at the map, mouth twisting in thought. The James dot was trailing behind Filch, climbing a set of stairs to the second floor… then the third.

"Reckon they're headed to the _troby _room, then?"

"Doesn't matter," said Al. "We just wait until Filch is back in his office."

"_Obbice_," snorted Scor. "Broom closet, more like."

They both bent over the Map, squinting as the Filch dot left James in the trophy room, then slowly made its way back to the ground floor. The James dot, meanwhile, was taking a familiar stroll down the long display of awards, judging by the gradual pace.

"Wonder if he's seen the Memorial before," said Scor.

"Dunno," said Al. The dot froze as it rounded the corner—the framed pictures must have just come into view. "Doesn't look like it."

Distantly, Al remembered his own reactions to this sight… Was James feeling the same thing? The dot moved forward, stopping at point midway along the memorial. It was difficult to tell—the image was miniscule—but James' dot was so near the line of the wall they were practically overlapping.

"What's he doing?" said Scor, leaning closer. "Poor sight or something?"

"He's got to be right in front of Snape's portrait," Al muttered.

"He's not—you don't think he's doing something to it?"

"It's protected from that sort of thing, I reckon," said Al, though privately he wasn't so sure. It was a memorial, after all—what if its only protection was the assumption people would be respectful?

"Filch's in position," said Scor, drumming his fingers on the table. "Ready?"

Nodding, Al pocketed the Map. By a stroke of luck, none of the prefects were around—he and Scor calmly left without drawing unwanted attention. Outside the common room, the wall grinding to a close, Al checked the Map.

"No one's nearby," he said quietly.

"We should maybe not go through the Great Hall," said Scor in a stage whisper, as they set off down the corridor. "And why are talking like this, if no one's around?"

Al shrugged, keeping an eye on the Map. The lower hallways were deserted—Kalna in his quarters on the first floor, Crowburn in… Al frowned. His dungeon quarters were empty. Searching the Map, Al spotted him on the fourth floor, next to a dot labeled _Étienne Guischard_.

Who was he? Another professor, perhaps?

"Problem?" said Scor.

"No," said Al, looking up. He paused, trying to find his bearings. "Er—we should go this way…"

After a series of turns, they reached a spiral staircase leading up to the corridor outside Filch's office. Eyes trained on Filch's dot, tensed to run should it move the least bit, he crept up the stairs, Scor a step behind him.

Peering around the end of the stairwell, he saw the minute lines on the Map made manifest: the door to a storage room along the right wall, a statue of Bangor the Bald further along; immediately to the left, a dark hallway emptied into the corridor, after which the wall stretched to the far door of Filch's office.

"Okay," said Al, turning to Scor. "You remember what—"

"Pl-ease," Scor scoffed, voice higher than usual. "I could do it in my sleep."

"All right," said Al. He breathed deep, a rush of nerves pounding from his chest outward, making him light. The plan was simple—it'd be over before he knew it. He exhaled. "Let's go."

With careful treads, they made their way down the hall, Al watching Filch on the Map. At Bangor the Bald, they separated—Al hiding in the statue's alcove, crouched behind Bangor's voluminous robes of stone.

On the Map, Scor's dot moved away, until it was just outside Filch's door. It stilled a moment, then began speeding back the way it had come.

"GREAT MERLIN'S BEARD!" Scor hollered at the top of his voice, the sound echoing up and down the hall. "THE GRYFFINDORS HAVE FLOODED THE ENTRANCE HALL! WE'LL ALL DROWN! MERLIN HELP US! THE GRYFFINDORS HAVE FLOODED THE ENTRANCE HALL!"

The shouting cut off as Scor's dot flung itself down the side corridor, and not a moment too soon—Al heard a door bang open, saw Filch's dot lurching out of his office. Enraged muttering grew louder, the dot drawing nearer, and then the real life Filch was limping by, mere feet away.

Filch's dot had hardly rounded the corner at the end of the corridor before Al jumped out from his hiding place, Map crammed in his pocket. Sprinting to Filch's office, he darted through the door, left open in the caretaker's haste, skidding to a stop once inside.

The dim room was cramped, its space made smaller by the dented filing cabinets and cluttered shelves lining the walls. Filch seemed to have every item ever confiscated on proud display—mainly WWW products. He had a whole jar of Extendable Ears high in one corner.

Al turned to glance at the shelf behind him and stumbled back in fright, raising a hand to ward off the angry cat glaring at him from a rack level with his head. When no claws sank into his arm or hissing met his ears, he straightened, peering over his sleeve at the feline.

It was poised to strike, a front paw extended in the air, dusty back arched, its yellow eyes wide and glazed. Stuffed, Al noted with snort.

Shaking his head, he looked around at the old wooden desk occupying most of the floor, raking its surface for the one thing that would make the night a success, the key to Plan B—there!

Twelve inches of hawthorn, unicorn hair core: James' wand.

"Okay," he said. He pulled the wand closer, positioning it just so, and drew out his own. Al closed his eyes, clearing his mind of doubts, nerves and the fear of Filch coming back any second. He'd managed the spell before—done it loads of times.

You can do it, he thought, blinking at his brother's wand.

"_Geminio_," he said, with a sharp sideways flick.

Next to the wand on the desk appeared an exact double—same length, width and shade—all except for the magical core, of course. Grinning down at the decoy, Al snatched up the real one, returning the fake to where Filch had originally placed James' wand, beside a pile of broken quills.

I did it, he thought. I—

He tensed, hearing something in the corridor, and tiptoed to the doorway. Remembering the Map, he dug it out of his pocket and breathed with relief—his corridor was clear. Scor was hiding down the side hallway, Filch on the grand staircase… with Corey and Clay?

Wandering out of the office, Al watched as Sinistra joined the group on the stairs. What had the twins done now?

"Scor?" he said, entering the side hallway.

"I'm here!" Scor whispered, rising from a crouch behind a suit of armor. He started toward Al. "Was it there? Did you do it? What took you?"

Al nodded, lifting both his wand and James' in his fist. "I was distracted by a cat."

"Filch has a cat?" said Scor, drawing even with him.

"Used to, I guess," Al replied. "It was kind of—preserved."

"Ew," said Scor.

As Al quietly filled Scor in on the contents of Filch's office, they returned to the spiral staircase and made it to the dungeons without mishap, Al checking the Map at every corner.

"But Scor," he said, when they were back in the common room. "I thought you were going shout that Gryffindors were _fighting_ in the Entrance Hall."

"I dunno," said Scor with smile. "Thought it sounded better, I suppose. Worked, didn't it?"

"Yeah," said Al, pulling James' wand from his pocket. "Erm, thanks. You know, for…"

"It was fun," Scor replied, shrugging. "We should get revenge more often. Can we do Bones, next?"

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Friday morning, Ana was less than pleased to hear they'd gone without her. She ignored Al all through breakfast, even as he gave her a play by play of what little had happened. He managed to draw a small grin from her at his description of Filch's stuffed pet.

"It's not that big a deal!" Scor insisted, when they met him in the Entrance Hall. "We were gone—what, a half hour?"

"If that," said Al, eyebrows raised entreatingly.

"Bit of a let down, really," said Scor. "I thought it'd be more exciting. Al could've done the whole thing by himself—honestly, I was bored. No offense, Al."

Al didn't respond. He was staring at a dark stain running along the walls of the Entrance Hall, several feet above his head. Turning on the spot, he saw the stain encircled the entire Hall.

"Al?" said Ana.

"Hmm?" He glanced down at them, then back at the stains. "…You know when you drain a tub, how sometimes there's this mark around the sides?"

"Yeah," she said.

"Scor," said Al. "Why is there a waterline in the Entrance Hall?"

"What?" Scor looked at Al, then up at the walls, eyes going wide.

"The twins were here with Filch while I was in his office," said Al, remembering. "I saw it on the Map. Then Sinistra showed up as well, which means something big was going on—"

"So," Ana said to Scor. "You _did_ know some Gryffindors had caused a flood."

"Er…" Scor's eyes darted from Ana, to Al, to the waterline, and back again. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I did."

"Well done," she said, starting up the stair. "We're going to be late. You coming?"

"Yes," said Scor, standing still. "Yes, I am."

Al took Scor's arm, forcing his gaze away from the walls.

"You had no idea," he muttered.

"Yes!" Scor protested. "Yes, I—"

"Scor."

Face twisting in anxiety, Scor shook his head. "No idea."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Disclaimer: These are JKR's characters and their imagined offspring, and I'm not the boss of any of them.

A/N: Riddle in this chapter found here: Dictionary entries from the Dictionary (Version 1.0.1) application on my laptop.

A/N II: AGAIN with the lateness! To make up for it, this chapter is extra long and action-packed. Enjoy!


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"What's he doing?" Al asked. He and Scor were sitting opposite Ana later that day at lunch, their backs to the rest of the Hall.

"Whacking his wand on the table," said Ana, glancing up from her sandwich. "He doesn't look happy."

"Hope he doesn't break it," said Scor, turning his head ever so slightly to the side, hoping to catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

"Scor," said Al warningly.

"I want to see!" he said.

"We can't let him know we're watching," Al repeated.

"He's pointing the fake at his plate," said Ana. "Trying to make his chips dance or something."

"I want to look," whined Scor.

"Don't," said Al. "He might see us turning round. It'd be too obvious."

"Fine," said Scor. He pushed his plate forward and disappeared under the table.

"Scor!" said Al, bending sideways to peer after him. Scor was already at the other bench, levering himself up next to Ana.

"What?" he said, brushing hair out of his face. "I want to see!"

"He really just likes me better," said Ana with a sigh.

"That too," said Scor, rolling his eyes. "You should come over as well, Al—much nicer view."

"Yeah, 'cause James won't notice us all staring at him," Al muttered.

"His face is red," noted Ana.

"He's snapping at his mates," said Scor.

"Rose is asking him something…"

"She looks…worried."

"Now he's snapping at Rose."

"She looks mad." Scor shook his head. "Wish we could hear what they're saying."

"Wish I could've seen him in class this morning," said Al. "I should've checked the Map during Defense."

"Ye-ah," said Scor doubtfully.

"Would've been the last thing you ever did," said Ana.

"You know he's got a seventh sense for that sort of thing," said Scor. "Remember Hooper?"

"That turned out all right for us," said Al with a smirk.

"You'll be able to check the Map as much as you like during History," Ana pointed out.

"If we decide to go," said Scor.

"I think we should," she said. "Since we didn't go on Tuesday."

Al nodded. "What's he doing now?"

"He's gone a bit purple and hunched," said Scor, sounding fascinated. "Seems he's pissed off all the people around him…" Snickering, Scor crossed his arms and stuck out his chin. "He's sitting like this."

"Definitely having a bad day," said Ana. "Must have had a class where you use your wand."

"So not Herbology, Astronomy, History…" Scor paused. "Or Potions?"

"We sometimes use wands in Potions," said Ana.

"Didn't have Defense," said Scor. "'Cause…we did."

As they speculated whether it would be more humiliating to have a faulty wand for Charms or Transfiguration, Al let his gaze wander to the teacher's table. Crowburn was at the far right end, deep in conversation with a professor Al had seen around the castle, but never met. He was an African wizard of medium build, with close-cropped hair and the warm eyes.

Nice smile, too, thought Al, as the wizard laughed at something Crowburn said.

"Come off it—it'd be _way _more embarrassing in front of Stebbins!" exclaimed Scor. "He calls us out on the least mistake!"

"But Terwit's a joke," said Ana. "If you can't manage _her_ practicals—"

"Who's that bloke next to Crowburn?" Al asked, distracted by the wizard's bright teeth.

"Sorry?" said Ana, following Al's line of sight. "Oh…" She glanced at Scor, who shrugged. "Don't know."

"He's Professor Guiscard," Danica said, piping up on Ana's other side. Al started a bit—he hadn't noticed her there, quietly sipping her soup, quite overwhelmed by presence of Violet Urquhart beside her. Misinterpreting his look of surprise, Danica explained: "I know all the professors' names. He teaches Ancient Runes."

"Right," said Al. "Er—so are he and Crowburn… friends, or something?"

As Danica furrowed her brow, Violet snorted into her sandwich, hurriedly set it on her plate and covered her mouth, shaking with silent laughter.

"Tam!" she gasped, once she had swallowed her food. "_Tam!_" A few people away, a girl looked up at the sound of her name. "The firsties are discussing Card and Crowe!"

"No!" exclaimed the girl, grinning wickedly. "They can't have caught on already!"

"That's my Charms tutor," Ana told Scor.

"What are they on about?" he wondered.

"Caught on to what?" Al asked Violet.

"Guiscard stop by your Defense lesson, then?" Violet said, ignoring the question.

"What?" Al glanced at Ana and Scor, who seemed just as confused.

"They have a long chat in French in front of the entire class?" said Tam, who had bounded over to wedge herself between Violet and Danica.

"Crowburn speaks French?" asked Al. The fifth years laughed, as though he had said something witty.

"I know, right?" said Violet. "He only jumps at _every_ chance to show it off."

"Right," said Al, completely lost.

"I heard from the Weasley twins what they say to each other is quite shocking," said Tam smugly. "They know French from their mother—the twins, I mean."

"So does their sister," said Violet. "And she says her brothers are full of it."

"They are," confirmed Al, glad to contribute. Scor nodded darkly, muttering something about dangerous tossers.

"Cousins of yours, aren't they?" said Violet. Without waiting for a response, she continued: "Crowburn's not stupid—he wouldn't incriminate himself in front of students."

"He knows we suspect him, though," said Tam. "Sometimes I think he's just having a laugh—dropping hints, how he and Guiscard go _way_ back—"

"How'd they meet?" asked Ana.

"Decades ago, in Senegal," said Violet, waving a hand. "Back when Crowburn was in his world-traveling phase—"

"He'll mention it sooner or later," said Tam.

"And then mention it again," added Violet.

"And again," said Tam, chuckling.

"When?" said Scor. He sat up straighter when the fifth years glanced over at him. "Well, he doesn't talk much, does he? This morning he had us practicing Dark Detection Spells, but only after he sat there for an hour listening to _us_ talk about when and where they're useful."

"That's all he's really does," agreed Ana.

"That, and award fifty points in one go," muttered Violet, sending a smirk in Al's direction. He ducked his head in response, not wanting to seem too pleased. Mention of it had died down of late, but the upper years had noticed when Slytherin abruptly pulled ahead in House points, and the story of Crowburn's personal riddle challenge had soon circulated through the dungeon dorms.

Suffice to say, Al was no longer apprehensive about spending time in a crowded common room.

"You're just going about it wrong!" Tam leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. "All you have to do is mention something he's interested in—foreign countries, obscure creatures, that kind of thing—and phrase it like a question, glance at him as you say it, like you're unsure of the facts. He'll respond every time."

Al looked back at the teacher's table. Guiscard was the one speaking now, gesturing with his fork while Crowburn nodded, listening as he ate.

"Best way to get him to talk," said Violet. She threw her napkin on her empty plate, preparing to stand. "We better go. Long way to Divination."

"Later, firstlets," said Tam, steeling a handful of Danica's chips. "You want to meet again Sunday, Dolohov?"

Ana nodded. As Violet and Tam walked away, Al noticed she was smiling down at the table.

"She a good tutor, then?" he asked.

"What?" She looked up, the grin lingering on her face. "Oh—yeah… she's all right."

"We should probably go, too," said Danica. "You three decided to go today, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Scor, sighing heavily as he stood.

"Has he noticed yet?" asked Al. "That we're usually not there?"

"No," said Danica, slinging her book bag over her shoulder. "Hufflepuffs have, though." She assumed an expression of mock-disappointment. "Lots of sad faces when they can't give you cards."

"You'd think their supply from the feast would've run out by now," said Al.

"Oh, it has," said Danica.

"What d'you mean?"

"Third years and up have been selling Chocolate Frogs to first and second," Danica explained. "A fourth year Hufflepuff tried to sell me some yesterday. They stock up whenever they go to Hogsmeade."

"Smart," said Al.

"I'll say—they're making_loads_."

As they made their way to the double doors, Scor shot one more glance at the Gryffindor table. Letting Ana and Dancia pull ahead, he leaned close to Al.

"He's about having a fit," he said, voice low. "How long are you going to keep it?"

"Depends," said Al.

"On what?"

"How off his game he is tomorrow."

Scor stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. "Quidditch."

"Yup."

"Gryffindor versus us!"

"Uh huh."

Scor wandered toward the grand staircase, lost in an anticipatory dream. "Brilliant."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

The moment Al was seated, Archie Smith deposited a card on his desk, glowering down at the cheerful face of Helga Hufflepuff.

"I thought it'd be a special one," he said. "Being such a big name and all—but it's the shortest, stupidest riddle I've ever heard."

"Okay," said Al, wondering if he should offer reassurance, or something. "I'll—er, give it a try."

"The Word better be good," Smith told the card. Hufflepuff appeared unfazed at the implied threat, her wand pointed steadily at a large mound of potatoes, which were hopping, one by one, out of their skins.

"She cooking?" said Al.

"Of course she's cooking!" huffed Smith. "That's what she's known for, isn't it?"

He's in a foul mood, Al noted, as Smith stomped back to his desk. He was sitting far away from Peter, too, which meant tensions were still running high in the Hufflepuff dormitory.

Ignoring the card, he drew a mess of parchment from his bag, arranging them on his desk as though preparing to take notes. Glancing around to be sure unwanted eyes were not watching, he tapped the topmost, worn parchment with his wand, whispering the words Teddy had taught him.

A few minutes' scanning led him to the dungeons, where the Gryffindor and Slytherin second years were gathered for Potions. James was sharing a station with Robbie Vane—which meant, even if the recipe called for wandwork, his partner could take care of it. On the bright side, this made it even more likely that James had had a humiliating morning, in a class that demanded the use of his wand.

At the front of room, Binns had begun a lecture on the fifth century Goblin-Centaur Clash, and his monotonous drone had already lost half the students. Next to him, Scor was doodling a Quidditch play—a Seeker attempting a Wronski Feint, by the looks of it. He'd drawn a scoreboard near the snitch, setting the score at thirty Gryffindor, seventy Slytherin.

Deciding James' Potions class would probably not prove a riveting scene, Al folded the Map and stowed it in his pocket, then felt around under his parchment for Smith's card. Hufflepuff was directing the potatoes to lie prone while an enchanted knife chopped rapidly down the row. Al bent low over the card, hoping she wouldn't draw too much attention.

"Psst," he whispered. "Excuse me—ma'am?"

Both Helga and Scor looked up from their tasks, the former with polite expectation, the latter with slight confusion. Scor's expression cleared, however, upon spotting the card.

"Could you—quietly—tell me the riddle, please?"

Hufflepuff nodded, glancing around with exaggerated care, as though a spy were eavesdropping just beyond the frame.

"Has teeth," she hissed. "Eats nothing."

"That's it?" said Al.

She nodded again, her attention returned to the slain spuds. Al watched her for a moment, a bit frustrated, then grabbed a quill from his bag. At the top of a clean sheet of parchment, he wrote:

HAS TEETH… EATS NOTHING

Smith wasn't lying, he thought. Not knowing what else to do, he started a list of things with teeth, x-ing them if he knew them to be eaters.

animals _X_

dead animals

humans _X_

dead humans

"Cheery," said Scor, reading over his shoulder.

Al chewed his lip. A person didn't have to be dead to eat nothing—poor people sometimes starved. And sad people… sometimes starved themselves.

Dimly, he remembered a holiday meal, years ago. He'd been—what? Seven? He must have been—that was the year Teddy had told James he was really the oldest one there, because eight stood for infinity. Al sat, secretly wishing he were eight already, until his father had described the magical properties of seven, assuring him it was definitely the better age.

It wasn't until later, towards the end of the meal, that James had loudly remarked Vee wasn't eating. Al recalled the ensuing second of silence so clearly, and then the normal chatter resumed, louder than it'd been before. It was the first time Al had noticed his oldest cousin was nearly as thin as he.

Vee was much bigger now, and Al knew she ate, but for awhile he thought she might've made the list.

He added 'starving humans.'

"All right?" murmured Scor.

"Yeah…"

It was a riddle, though—the answer wouldn't be anything as complex as a person, or even an animal. This one reminded him of the clock riddle, or the river riddle… The solution was most likely an object, something ordinary.

Anything jagged could be described as teeth, really. Like the knickknacks his grandfather kept in the shed—saws, cogs that linked together to turn. But those where distinctly Muggle; the general wizarding population were ignorant of such fanged tools.

Teeth: pointy things that interacted with other things. A fork, perhaps? What they had were usually called _prongs_, though. Knives had points—especially steak knives. But since all of those sawed into food, you could almost say they _did_ eat.

A hairbrush? They had bristles.

Surveying the parchment, he thought he had an impressive array of wrong answers.

animals _X_

dead animals

humans _X_

dead humans

starving humans

saw

cog

fork _X_

steak knife _X_

hairbrush

"That's some shopping list," Scor whispered. "But hairbrushes are for girls."

"Are not," said Al.

"Are too! I use a comb," he said, as though that settled it.

Which—it kind of did. Al grabbed the card, where Hufflepuff was conducting the diced potatoes into a bubbling cauldron at the end of the table.

"Is the answer 'comb'?" he asked, when she looked away from her work.

Hufflepuff beamed, her face dimpling at the sides. "Your Word is 'gobbled.' The next card is Bowman Wright."

"Thanks," said Al, writing it down.

Hufflepuff only nodded, mouth still quirked in a grin as she reached for a jar of spices.

"Erm—what are you making?" he asked.

"Pottage," she replied, spelling a ladle to slowly stir the cauldron.

"Oh." When no more explanation was forthcoming, he returned the card below the parchment on his desk.

"I want some credit for that one!" said Scor. "You would never've guessed comb."

"I'd be lost without you," said Al absently. He folded his arms over his desk, resting his head on his sleeve. "You and your weird way of knowing things you shouldn't know."

Scor was suddenly very interested in whatever Binns was saying, making a show of taking notes on a page that had until then only sported the day's date.

"Dunno what you mean," he said.

Al didn't press the issue—though Scor had admitted having no previous knowledge of twins' flood the night before, he did not seem keen to discuss it further.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

That night, sleep proved strangely evasive. After a few hours of shifting sides and punching pillows, Al sat up in bed, rubbing his face in frustration. This made no sense. He'd had enough restless nights to know what usually caused them, but none of those factors were present.

He wasn't anxious—no matter whether James won or lost tomorrow, Al had still managed to soundly humiliate him. He wasn't worried about James finding out what he'd done—James was dense, but he'd probably put two and two together when Al returned his real wand.

He certainly wasn't suffering from_guilt_—what James had done to him was far worse. _James_ did not experience a prickling apprehensive whenever he mounted a broom. Al suspected his gut reaction just before flight would fade eventually, but for now it was a weekly reminder, every Thursday, of James' prank.

Al was _happy_ knowing James would likely feel a thrill of nerves whenever he lifted his wand for awhile to come. It was only fair.

As he assessed his feelings, Al grew more confused. He was satisfied—completely pleased with how Plan B had transpired. He had accepted his Sorting, so long as he didn't dwell on it. He felt a comfortable fondness and gratitude whenever he thought of Ana, and an all-encompassing curiosity, almost anticipation, whenever he thought of Scor.

None of which should be keeping him up at night.

Had he forgotten something? A niggling in his mind seemed to think so, but was disinclined to specify. Friday night—so it wasn't homework. He was prepared for every approaching essay. He'd written to his mother and father a few days ago, so they wouldn't expect another for several days more.

Could be he just wasn't tired. Figuring he'd give this option a shot, Al felt around on his nightstand for his wand.

"_Lumos_."

By the narrow beam of the light spell, he located a robe to throw over his nightclothes and slid into his trainers. At the door, he paused, contemplating the dark dormitory, silent but for the breathy snores whispering through the bed curtains.

The Slytherin dorms were always shadowy—even during the day, the only sources of light were the guttering torches on the walls, the ever-lit fireplaces, and candle-decked chandeliers. At night, when glowing embers in the grate were all that was left, the surrounding black was deep, cold and penetrating.

The illumination of his wand was dismal by comparison. Al wished he had night vision—like a cat, or those Muggle goggles Hector had ordered in the mail. There was probably a spell for that, somewhere… He'd have to look it up.

In the still common room, a pair of older students was asleep on a couch by the dying fire. Al stopped by a table and drew the Map from his pocket, still active from earlier that day.

He decided he rather fancied a walk.

As the wall shifted to reveal the exit, he kept an eye on the two girls sleeping across the room, but the dull grinding of stone failed to stir them. Inhaling the cold air that seeped in from the dungeons, he stepped out into the corridor, double-checking the Map while the wall slid shut behind him.

The lower floors of the school were empty except for the Bloody Baron floating at the deepest level, a few floors down. Al didn't want to know what _he_ was up to, but so long as the ghost stayed there, the halls were clear.

Not really knowing where he planned to go, Al started in the direction of the Entrance Hall. Maybe he would visit the kitchens, bring back some rolls for Scor. Al sort of wished he'd brought him along, or Ana—he felt utterly alone in the dank, dripping quiet of the underground maze.

He wandered slowly, checking the Map at every turn. On one corner, he stopped, glancing back and forth between a suit of armor to the right and a staircase marked on the parchment—unless the Map was wrong, the stairs should have been where the suit was stationed. Peering at the wall behind the body of armor, Al nearly choked in fright when the inert knight clanked to life, swinging its arms invitingly toward the blank wall.

Al stayed where he was, frozen against the opposite wall. After moment, the suit's helmet turned in place, until the hollow visor was staring right at him. It might have been sending a questioning look, but Al couldn't really be sure, seeing at how its face consisted of hollow metal. For all he knew, the thing was glaring at him. Menacingly.

Seeming to grow impatient, the suit of armor stomped its foot, chain mail jingling long after the initial clang had subsided.

Right, thought Al. If it wanted to attack me, it'd have done it by now.

Also, evil things tended not to stomp their feet.

Hesitantly, he approached the plinth on which the suit of armor waited, arms still directing him to the wall. He stepped up beside it, and—a part of him shouting at him to stop—extended a hand toward the expanse of stone.

Much to his surprise, his hand went right through it, disappearing where his wrist met the rock. He stared at his arm, wondering whether he really wanted to step all the way through, but the suit of armor had had enough. With a high shriek of metal on metal, it shoved Al in the back, and he fell forward with a yelp, eyes squeezing closed as the wall flew up in his face.

This would have hurt, were the wall a wall, and not the secret entrance to a staircase. Al picked himself up, rubbing his elbow where it had collided with a step, and squinted into the upper shadows. According to the Map, the stairs emptied onto the third floor, by a long gallery. Sighing, Al shoved the Map in his pocket, lifted his wand, and began the climb.

What he had not realized was that, started from the subbasement, the third floor was five flights up. By the time he reached the top, his legs ached and a sweat had broken across his brow. He threw himself down on the last step, muttering about pushy, reject armor sets, and tried to orient himself on the Map. Wherever he was, no one else was nearby.

The hallway was marginally brighter and warmer than those in the dungeons, and Al found himself breathing easier as strolled the third floor. All he had to fear were the odd teacher or prefect—he wouldn't be forced up an endless hidden stairwell by creepy body armor here.

Speaking of, though Al, as he rounded the corner to the gallery he'd seen on the Map. The long room was lined with suit after suit of armor, glinting eerily in the light of his wand. Al hurried past, his eyes trained before him, lest he tempt any of them to move.

The corridor leading off the gallery was vaguely familiar. Examining the Map, he saw the Trophy Room was just down the hall. He and Scor had passed the gallery on their way to detention, weeks ago.

He walked toward the Trophy Room, remembering what the Map had shown only last night: James, lurking around the Memorial, suspiciously close to where Snape's portrait ought to be. Al didn't really think James would do something as stupid as deface a war monument, but it wouldn't hurt to make sure.

The cavernous room was quite different in the dark. Where the trophies and plaques had glimmered proudly before, at night they only cast strange shadows, their glass cases reflecting those across aisle in an infinite array of awards. Glancing at the extinguished torch brackets at the end of the hall, Al wondered whether a sort of mass-_Nox_ put the castle's room to bed each night, or if each light were snuffed individually.

Had to be a castle-wide snuffing spell, he reasoned. Otherwise, it'd take hours…

Lost in the thought of putting out lights, he barely noticed the voices before rounding the corner of the Memorial. Al froze, one hand braced on the wall, the other muffling the beam of his wand in his robe-front. He barely breathed, listening.

"My dear Severus," said a lightly amused voice. "You are not awake because I am here—I am here because you are awake."

Someone was talking to Snape's portrait! Trying not to make a sound, he drew the Map from his pocket. A part of him knew this was a daft move—voices meant he should get out of there, no matter whom the voices belonged to.

"You would be awake were I here or not," continued the voice. "I daresay your internal clock is beyond repair, after all these years of sleeping during the day."

Slowly, Al unfolded the Map, thankful the parchment was so old it would be noiseless even if tore it in two. He held the Map close to his chest, letting just enough of the smothered wandlight to illuminate the lines of the third floor.

Al found his dot, a miniscule _Albus Potter_ halted at the end of the Trophy Room, and just beyond the corner was—

Nothing?

Cautiously, he peeked around the bend.

"Of course, my clock was always a might off," said the voice. "Interesting, is it not, that such a characteristic would carry on in this oiled rendition of myself?"

Al nearly collapsed with relief. _Oiled rendition_—it was nothing but another portrait, someone visiting Snape's frame… And he could think of only portrait in the castle that would willingly do such a thing.

Still, he hesitated. Dumbledore, he was almost certain, would have no qualms about finding a first year wandering the school after hours—he'd caught his father at it multiple times. But Snape—he wasn't so sure…

"I never did sleep well," said Dumbledore quietly.

On one hand, he was a Potter—something the infamous Potions Master would definitely hold against him. On the other, he was a Slytherin—and therefore someone for whom Snape was least likely to cause trouble. Maybe he could bank on Dumbledore's laxity, coupled with his Slytherin status…?

Freeing his wand, Al stepped around the corner.

"Have we had this discussion before?" Dumbledore was asking. "I sometimes forget. An easy mistake, I suppose, when conversations are so one-sided."

Al approached the center portrait, careful to keep the beam from his wand low, so as not to blind the frame's occupants. The painting gradually resolved from the shadows, revealing a rather unique composition.

A second chair had been dragged into the frame, pushing one side of Snape's seat out of sight. Likewise, one arm of Dumbledore's chair extended beyond the visible dimensions of the portrait, the wizard's crossed legs also disappearing behind the frame. This was rather disappointing for Al, as he had always heard Dumbledore's shoes had to be seen to be believed.

Awareness of an abrupt quiet called Al's attention away from the hem of Dumbledore's robes. Nervously, Al raised his head to meet the old eyes observing him over half moon spectacles. Dumbledore's mouth was quirked in wry smile, but the longer the silence stretched, the larger the thought loomed in Al's mind:

This was really awkward.

What was he thinking? Presenting himself to _Albus_ Dumbledore and _Severus _Snape—two towering historical figures—the former of whom seemed to be waiting for Al to speak first, the latter of whom had yet to even look at him?

Snape was gazing off frame, in exactly the same manner as when Al first saw him. Dumbledore had steepled his fingers, elbows on either armrest.

Al sort of wanted to cry, though he crushed the impulse upon recognizing it. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked away from Dumbledore to stare at his feet. He didn't know what to say—what _could_ he say?

I hear stories about you two all the time…. I've read loads about you in books…

I'm named after you both.

He was overcome with sudden resentment: towards his parents, for their presumption, giving him such a name; towards his namesakes, for being the type of wizards no one could live up to—a type he didn't _want_ to live up to.

Still Dumbledore said nothing. Did he even know who Al was? He had to—Al looked too much like his father to be mistaken for anyone else. Had to—because Al sure as hell wasn't introducing himself. He'd die of embarrassment—a scrawny, dungeon-bleached Harry Potter lookalike, calling himself_Albus Severus_, a name made more ludicrous only by juxtaposition with its subject.

Al wanted to turn and run away, but then he'd be dogged by potential embarrassment for the next seven years—afraid to glance at walls in case either of them happened to be staring down from it.

He had to say something. Anything.

"Sorry," he said, barely audible. He forced himself to look up from the floor, which wasn't much of an accomplishment, as he stepped backward at the same time.

Dumbledore was studying him, his face unreadable. Finally, he spoke: "For what?"

_For being so bloody pathetic, for one thing_, said his James voice.

Al almost flinched, shaking his head. It'd been awhile since he'd heard his James voice—its reappearance was unexpected.

"For—" he stopped, clearing his throat. "For interrupting."

He felt light with relief when Dumbledore chuckled.

"Dear boy," he said. "I _hope_ to be interrupted when I am talking him." He gestured to Snape, who twitched an eyebrow with a short expulsion of air from his hooked nose that maybe passed for a snort.

"Why?" asked Al.

"Well, he's certainly not going to do so, and I never quite mastered the skill of interrupting myself."

Al's eyes darted from Snape's face to Dumbledore's, not sure how he should respond.

"I'm Headmaster Dumbledore," said Dumbledore, as though he needed an introduction. "This is Headmaster Snape, though I think he'd prefer it if you didn't call him that."

"What should I call him?" Al watched Snape for a reaction, but the portrait refused to acknowledge either of them.

Dumbledore leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I always suspected a partiality for _Master_ Snape, but I doubt either of us will ever know for sure."

A muscle was flexing in Snape's jaw. Al wondered why Headmaster Dumbledore didn't sense the imminent danger of sitting so close to other man.

"He—he won't say?" said Al.

"Not a word on that, nor on anything else," said Dumbledore, settling back in his chair. "In fifteen years, he's spoken five times: once to his painter, thrice to me—" His beard twitched in a smile. "Once to your father."

Al's gaze jerked back to Dumbledore.

"And you?" said the old wizard. "What do you like to be called?"

Al swallowed. "You know my name."

"That's not what I asked," Dumbledore replied. For a moment, his head tilted, eyes glimmering with—something… understanding? He hoped it was, so much so that he couldn't be sure.

"I'm called Al," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Al," said Dumbledore with a nod.

"You too, sir," he said.

"Do you have the time?" asked Dumbledore.

"Yes, sir," said Al, checking his watch. "Oh—" He grimaced. "Two a.m."

"Is it?" said Dumbledore. "I would have guessed three. My wrist, you see—" He held up his left hand. "Tends to twinge if I'm up past half two. It _is_ curious what translates from subject to portrait."

"I should get back to the dorm," said Al.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "I would caution you against going through the Entrance Hall, but I expect you've inherited at least one of your father's trouble-saving aides."

"Er—yes, sir," said Al, holding up the Map. "From Teddy Lupin."

"Ah, of course."

Al stepped back, debating between _good night_ or—

"Good morning, then," he said.

"To you as well," said Dumbledore.

Al had only just passed the first trophy case when he heard Dumbledore speak up again. Feeling a bit silly for doing so, he stilled, staining his ears.

"If you deigned to look at him, Severus, you would see he has his grandmother's eyes."

Al frowned, waiting for Snape's response—but none came.

"And sorted into Slytherin," Dumbledore continued. "Quite unexpected."

He held his breath. When only silence reached him from around the bend, he turned to sneak away.

And then he heard it: a low voice, rough from lack of use.

"Only two generations late."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Al squinted at the bright autumn light streaming through the stained-glass windows of the Great Hall and stifled a yawn. It had been half two when he finally crept back into the dorm—past three by the time he'd fallen asleep, his mind exhausted from replaying the conversations at the Memorial the night before.

At his elbow, Scor groaned. His forehead was flat on the table, next to his untouched place setting.

"Now I see why he never comes to breakfast," said Ana, peering at him with dawning understanding.

Al poked Scor's shoulder, to no effect. "We couldn't let him miss the game like he did last time. He slept through his first Slytherin match!"

"Looks like he's gonna sleep through this one, too," noted Ana, reaching for her pumpkin juice. "But at least he'll make it to the pitch."

"If you plan on _carrying_ me, maybe," came a dull voice from the vicinity of the porridge bowl.

"Actually, I was planning on letting Ana levitate you to the stands," said Al.

Scor shot upright, his hair sticking out at every angle, forming a jagged halo around his head in the morning sunlight.

"No," he said, clearing his throat. "No, that's all right."

"Thanks," said Ana dryly.

"What?" said Scor, glancing blearily around. "Yeah…welcome."

Ana rolled her eyes, but Al could tell she was a second from laughing.

"Here, just eat something," he said, pulling over a tray of toast. "Help you wake up."

As Scor quietly munched, Ana's eyes darted over Al's shoulder to the Gryffindor table.

"What?"

"The team's getting up," she said. "Leaving for the locker rooms."

"How's he look?"

"Nauseous."

Al fidgeted, wanting to turn and see for himself.

"Just do it," muttered Scor, as through reading his mind. Al glanced at his friend, sitting hunched over his plate, mouth dotted with crumbs, and wondered if he had. "Just look," said Scor, mistaking Al's inquisitive expression. "I mean, what's he gonna do now, even if he does catch you watching?"

Al turned, letting his eyes wander towards the double doors, and saw the familiar faces of the Gryffindor Quidditch team filing out in a row. James was trailing behind the group, footsteps heavy, as though he doubted the wisdom of continuing on his current course.

It made a stark contrast to the cocky bravado of recent weeks. Al was distantly aware he should be feeling a pang of remorse about now—if not for his brother, than at least for his brother's team, whom he was indirectly sabotaging.

But Al was equally aware he felt no such thing. All he'd done was shake James' confidence a bit—it wasn't as though you needed magic to fly a broom. Even Hector could do it—something Al had brought up with his dad more than once before, though he'd been shot down every time.

Still, he figured maybe he'd return the wand sooner rather than later.

When James had disappeared into the Entrance Hall, Al righted himself on the bench. Scor was drinking deeply from his goblet, but Ana was watching Al.

"All right?" she said.

"Yeah." He shoved his last bit of sausage in his mouth, gulping it down with a mouthful of juice.

At the end of the table, the Slytherin Quidditch players were preparing to leave as well. He heard Abbey shouting good luck to her idol, Rin Cole, the only girl on the team.

"Block a Quaffle for me, Derrick!" yelled Tam.

"Yeah, Higgs, first save is for you," answered Alan, who stood head and shoulders above the rest of his teammates.

"Merlin," said Tam, shaking her head at his retreating back.

"I know," said Violet, a wry slant to her mouth. "When'd he become fit?" Tearing her eyes away from the double doors, she caught Al's amused stare. "What's your problem, Potter? You deny that he's fit?"

"Er—" He chuckled, acutely uncomfortable.

Scor was sniggering into his goblet.

"Shut up," grumbled Al.

"We should probably get to the stands," said Ana. "Matt and Paul just left."

"Right," he said, rising from the bench. "You ready, Sleeping Beauty?"

Scor threw him a withering glare. "I'm_awake_."

Al smirked. "Let's go, then."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Conditions on the pitch that day were cold and clear, with a biting wind that whistled at intervals around the stands. Al was glad of his scarf and mittens as he, Ana and Scor settled into a row behind the other first years in the Slytherin section—he certainly didn't envy the Quidditch players, with their light sports robes and gale-force speeds. He wondered whether any of them used heating charms; Al decided he would, if he ever made the team.

Far below, seven red-robed figures emerged from the locker room.

"First on the pitch is _Gryffindor_!" announced the commentator, voice magnified beyond the normal range in both volume and enthusiasm. In the row behind them, Violet gave a snort of disgust.

"Chambers," she said, and Al didn't have to look to know her lip was curled in a sneer. "As if listening to her at every prefect meeting weren't enough."

"Looking in _fine_ form today," Chambers continued. "We have Beaters Finnigan and Finnigan, Chasers Weasley, Weasley and Captain Weasley, Keeper Weasley, and Seeker Potter—a family affair, it's safe to say!"

"Family affair," scoffed Tam, beside Violet. "Nepotism, more like."

"Dunno if I'll be able to come to any more of these," said Violet. "Her voice makes me want hex something."

Al slid down in his seat, lest some_thing_ become some_one_. From his position by Ana's elbow, he missed the entrance of the opposition.

"And there's Slytherin!" said Chambers, her voice cracking on last word. "With Beaters Bletchley and Vaisey, Chasers Cole, Nott and _Captain_ _Higgs_, Keeper Derrick, and Seeker Flint!"

"I think the Ravenclaw fancies your brother, Tam," said Violet, snickering.

"If she comments on his fine form, I'm gone."

Curious, Al straightened up, craning his neck to get a better look at the Slytherin Captain. He'd seen Higgs at their last match, noted his skill as a Chaser, but hadn't paid him much attention beyond that.

Even from a distance, the resemblance between Tam and Higgs was obvious—both were wiry, with high cheekbones and light brown hair. On the pitch, Higgs was striding to the centerline, where Victoire waited with Coach Wood.

As Chambers whined in the background, the Captains shook hands. Victoire's hair, glinting strawberry blonde in the sun, was gathered in a long braid down her back. Al chuckled to see her staring down her nose at Higgs—Victoire had a quite a few inches on the other Captain.

"How tall is she?" asked Ana, noticing the same.

"Taller than my dad," said Al with a shrug. "But he's kinda short."

On the pitch, Coach Wood was motioning the teams into position, and Al faintly heard the yell: "Mount your brooms!"

James was the youngest player there, by far the smallest on his team. His face was starkly pale against his scarlet uniform, head swerving from one teammate to another, as though searching for something—reassurance, instructions, Al didn't know what and didn't much care.

James was freaking out, and the game hadn't even started.

A long, shrill whistle broke Al's observation. Coach Wood tossed the Quaffle high as all fourteen players launched themselves into the air, and all was a tumult of streaking forms and roaring sound.

"Gryffindor in possession!" exclaimed Chambers. "Weasley passes to Weasley—he _dodges_ a Bludger and drop-passes to Weasley!"

"Truly illuminating commentary," drawled Violet.

Corey was barreling down the pitch, the Quaffle tucked under his arm. At the Slytherin goal hoops, Alan Derrick was swaying side to side, anticipating his trajectory.

"Seriously, he's huge," said Scor. "He could hold out his arms and cover two hoops at once!"

"Could not," said Ana.

"Could so," argued Scor. "He's_beastly_. Bet he could beat up Hagrid."

"Hagrid's ancient," said Ana dismissively.

Corey was winding up for the throw while the Finnigan brothers fended off pursuing Slytherins with two well-aimed Bludgers.

"Weasley _shoots_—" said Chambers.

Corey had gone for the far right hoop, but Derrick dived sideways—Al saw the Quaffle smack against his palm before he heard it.

"No goal!" cried Chambers. "Derrick throws to Higgs—"

"That one's for me!" shouted Tam, punching the air in triumph.

The game continued, and Al let himself become absorbed in the action, following each play with no small amount of inner conflict. Up until now, he'd been able to support either his Gryffindor cousins or Slytherin housemates during matches—because up until now, they'd not faced off against each other. When Victoire scored on Derrick, he had to check his reaction so as not to seem too exuberant; watching Rin Cole pull off a brilliant feint to score against Clay, he felt simultaneous urges to cheer and wince—though, remembering the tornado incident, he'd done the former. All the while, James circled above, scanning the chaos for a glint of gold.

An hour in, the scoreboard read thirty Gryffindor, forty Slytherin, and Al finally slumped in his seat, leaning against Ana.

Cheering for both side was exhausting.

"At least they're doing equally well," she said. "So it really only matters who gets the Snitch."

Al glanced at Flint, who had grown tired of searching for the moment and was doing back flips mid-field.

"And I know who I'm cheering for there," he said, but even as the words left his mouth he felt an anxious twist in his gut. On the one hand, he wanted Flint to catch it, because that meant James failing. On the other, James failing meant Victoire losing the game, and Al knew how much his cousin wanted to win the Cup one more time before graduating. Winning today would help secure Gryffindor a place in the Final.

To distract himself from his inner turmoil, Al glanced around the stands, letting his attention sway anywhere but the game. In the teacher's section across the pitch, Professor Longbottom was on his feet shouting encouragement as Fred zoomed by with the Quaffle. Crowburn was seated in the topmost row, wearing a hat with furry earflaps, with Sinistra on one side, Guiscard on the other. As Al watched, Crowburn lifted an earflap, eyes on the game, the better to hear what Guiscard was saying.

"His arm, Ben! Go for his arm!" hollered Abbey, leaning forward in her seat. She was wedged between Sarah-May and Matthias on the row in front of him. A moment later, she groaned, pounding her lap with her fists. "He _never_ aims as well with his backhand—he should just leave it alone."

"Bletchley's got it covered," said Matthias, attention rapt in the action. "Wait for it—_there_!"

Al looked up and flinched as Bletchley's Bludger hit Fred square on the shoulder. The Quaffle flew free and every Chaser lunged in pursuit, arms outstretched, except for Troy Higgs, who saw the ball heading straight for him. He lifted an arm with a smirk, as though asking for a hug, and the Quaffle landed with a satisfying _thunk_ between his elbow and his gut.

"Slytherin in possession!" exclaimed Chambers, voice high in excitement. "Higgs _streaking_ toward the Gryffindor hoops!"

"Did you see that!" shouted Argil, shaking Sarah-May's arm in a rare moment of discomposure. "Did you _see_ that—that was brilliant!"

"Get off," snapped Sarah-May, batting at his hand. Argil didn't seem to hear her, following Higgs's progress down the pitch, though he grasped Danica's arm instead.

"The Finnigan brothers rush to pursue," said Chambers. "Bearach fires a Bludger from beyond the center line, but—yes, from that distance it loses interest!"

Now only Clay sat between Higgs and the hoops.

"Go Troy!" screamed Tam.

Higgs glanced over his shoulder, but the Gryffindors were still struggling to catch up—he had plenty of room to maneuver. Lifting the Quaffle to shoulder height, elbow crooked, as though cradling a shot put, he swerved to the side, approaching the hoops from the left.

"Higgs setting up for a fly-by shot, with the Gryffindors closing in quick—he'd better—OH!"

Higgs had flown by the first and second hoops, drawing Clay to guard the third, when he'd yanked his broom around, doubling back to launch the Quaffle at the first. Clay's lunge to the side fell short, the Quaffle sailing past his fingertips.

"He scores!" shouted Chambers, and the Slytherin stands erupted with cheers. "Fifty-thirty, to Slytherin—and Captain Weasley signals for time out!"

Matthias shook his head, watching Higgs' descent to the ground. "What are we gonna do without him next year?"

"We're losing Sparky as well," said Abbey, glancing down at the small green figure crossing the pitch, broom in hand.

"You'll be trying out, yeah?"

"Trying out?" repeated Argil, leaning forward from his seat on the end to grin at Matthias. "She'll be _making_ it."

"I think I just heard Sarah-May roll her eyes," Ana muttered in his ear. Al bit down on a smirk.

"Chaser, then?" said Paul.

"Yeah, though I could Seek pretty well, if they wanted. What about you?"

Paul seemed to choke. "Me? Try—try out?"

"I was thinking of going for Beater," said Matthias, cutting in. "Maybe make it as an alternate. I'm pretty big."

"Or Keeper," said Paul. "'Cause, you know, Matt—you're good at getting in the way."

Matthias gave Paul a shove on the arm.

"You should try out, Al," said Abbey.

Startled, Al looked down to see her twisting around in her seat. "Erm—"

"You're a good flyer," she said. "And your dad was a Seeker, right?"

"The youngest Seeker in a century!" piped in Scor. At Al's incredulous expression, he colored. "Er—so my dad said. Once." He examined his hands. "Shouted, really."

"Yeah," said Abbey, deliberately turning back to Al. "And your mother played for the _Harpies_, mate—you've got Quidditch in your blood!"

"I—I might," said Al. "I'd only have a chance of making Seeker, though, and I—I find Seeking a bit…boring."

"Boring?" said Argil. He gestured at Geoff Flint, gathered with the rest of team, ready to return to the air. "Just do like Sparky, and spazz out occasionally."

Al laughed. "Guess I could do that."

"There's the whistle!" said Chambers. "Play resumes with Gryffindor in possession!"

"You planning on flying much over hols?" said Matthias.

"Yeah," said Abbey distractedly, following the Quaffle as it changed from Corey to Fred. "Dad was having some stuff redone in the Flying Room, but that should be finished by now."

"_Flying_ _Room_," snorted Matthias. "Can't handle flying in the cold, Vaisey?"

"Can," she said smugly. "Just don't have to."

Matthias muttered something under his breath that made Paul laugh and Abbey smack him round the head.

"Don't know why you're laughing, Polkiss," she said. "I expect you'll be flying in the cold as well!"

"Nah," said Matthias, clapping Paul's shoulder. "Poor Paulie here crashed his broom over the summer. Parents won't replace it, as punishment."

Abbey clucked her tongue in sympathy. "Well, maybe you'll get one for Christmas, huh?"

"Yeah," said Paul, eyes on the game. "Maybe."

A half hour later, Slytherin had scored twice more—another feint from Cole and a penalty from Nott. Al anxiously watched as Victoire's face flushed to match her hair and Clay posture grew rigid on his broom, clear signs that his cousins weren't having a fun time.

"They're only forty behind," said Ana.

"The Weasley temper has a short incubation period," quoted Al.

"What?"

"I dunno, something my Aunt Hermione likes to say."

"Lookit Sparky! Lookit Sparky!" screamed Abbey.

All heads whipped to the plummeting form of Flint except for Al's, whose attention had gone straight to his brother. James had just cottoned on to the elevated noise from the stands—though Chamber's shout of "Flint has _spotted_ the Snitch!" may have helped—and dived after his opponent, body flattened to his broom.

"Potter takes off in pursuit, and with his Meteor X he gaining fast—"

Al narrowed his eyes, scanning the air in front of Flint. "Where's the Snitch?"

No sooner had he asked than Flint flipped his broom and gone speeding back the way he had come, heading directly for James. Al felt his stomach churn, eyes latched on the blurs of red and green streaking toward collision.

"TURN!" he bellowed.

At the last possible instant, James swerved to the side and Flint shot past him, so close Al would have sworn their sleeves touched. James spiraled out to the side, struggling to regain control of his broom, and by the time Al looked back at Flint, it was over.

Flint's arm was raised above his head, his hand clutching the Golden Snitch.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Their second Quidditch victory party of the year, held in the common room later that night, was much like the first: loud, crowded and overheated. Al suspected one of the upper years had smuggled Firewhiskey in, though he had yet to spot the bottle. The first years had somehow snagged the chairs along one side of the snack table, and had so far met with no demands to vacate—everyone else was too busy running around, taking turns lifting tiny Sparky Flint on their shoulders.

From the redness of his face, Al guessed that wherever the Firewhiskey bottle was, Sparky knew.

"So, Al—" called Argil, snagging a Chocolate Frog from the table. "When I open this, what're the chances you've met the card already?"

"Chances are good," Ana answered for him. "Pass the crisps, would you?"

"Let's see, then," said Argil, absently pushing the bowl in her direction. He squeezed the wrapper so that the trapped air forced open the seal with a pop.

"I think you've killed the frog," said Matthias.

"That's cruelty towards chocolate, that is," said Paul. He held out for a moment, then snickered into his cup.

"Here, you can have it," said Argil, extracting the card and handing Matthias the broken frog. "All right, it's—" He flipped the card. "Uric the Oddball."

Al choked on a crisp and doubled over in his chair, coughing into his hand, while Scor seized the opportunity to wallop him on the back. Clearing his throat, Al peered around, hoping they'd attribute his flushed face to lack of oxygen.

"Yeah, I—I remember that one," he said. Beside him, Ana was shaking with silent laughter, so he reckoned she remembered, too.

"You know how it goes, or should I ask him?" said Argil.

"Erm, yeah—no. No, ask him."

With a shrug, Argil held up the card. "Mr. Uric? The riddle, please?"

Uric cackled and adjusted the jellyfish on his head. The surrounding first years leaned in. Al and Ana exchanged glances. With a final tug on a stray tentacle, Uric said: "What it is a man can do standing, a woman sitting down, and a dog on three legs?"

There was a moment of silence before everyone burst out laughing. Argil dropped the card, his face torn between amused and scandalized.

"_What_?" cried Abbey, hands covering her face as she giggled. Sarah-May arched an eyebrow, though she was a bit pink in the cheeks, and Matthias and Paul were sniggering into their shared chocolate.

Al waited until they had quieted some, then spoke up. "It's—er…not what you're thinking, actually."

"What are we thinking, Al?" asked Scor innocently.

Al rolled his eyes. "It's not—the answer's not pissing."

"No?" said Matthias with a chuckle. "It sure sounds like the answer's pissing."

"He's Uric the Oddball, that's what he wants you to think," said Al. "But if you say that, he'll tell you that's not the answer he's looking for."

"Tricky git," said Paul. "What is it, then?"

"What can a man do standing, a woman sitting down, and a dog on three legs?" said Al, glancing around. He raised his eyebrows. "Shake hands."

Scor snorted while the rest of them laughed, uttering various forms of surprise and indignation.

"I still say pissing's a fair answer," said Matthias.

"It is," Al agreed.

"Anyone want to know the word?" said Argil. When no one replied, he threw it on the table, and after a few more stray chuckles the conversation moved elsewhere.

Awhile later, the snack table mostly empty and the noise level lessened to that of a typical Saturday night, Al found himself yawning into his goblet. Ana was chatting with a second year—the younger brother of one of the Chasers, Nott. Franklin, Al thought his name was—the second year, not the Chaser.

He yawned again.

"You're tired?" said Scor. "It's barely half nine."

"I was just up late, last night," he said. "Didn't sleep until—late."

"How late?"

"Between three and four."

Scor looked horrified. Al didn't imagine Scor was even capable of consciousness at such a time.

"I still got five hours or so. Of rest," he clarified, when Scor did not appear assuaged.

"Five hours," Scor repeated. He paused, studying the napkin folded on his knee. "I thought your eyes seemed droopy today."

"_Droopy_?"

"Yes. And—with bags under them."

"What do you—" Instinctively, Al's hands went to his face, fingers pressing just below his lower lashes, as though feeling for the offending bags.

"Just go to bed right now and I'm sure it'll all be gone by tomorrow."

"Right," said Al. He turned to Ana, but she was deep in conversation with Franklin, nodding earnestly at whatever he was saying. "Er—" He turned to Scor. "Tell Ana I said good-night?"

"Will do."

"Right," said Al. He rose, set his goblet on the table and turned toward the door to the dormitories. "'Night, Scor."

"'Night, Al."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

When all woke early on Sunday morning, he lay in bed, staring at the canopy, and considered his options. Today was the day he'd decided to return James' wand—if he kept it any longer, he figured the teachers might notice something seriously wrong with James' performance in class, and Al didn't want to know what the punishment was for stealing a wizard's wand. He knew James would never report his problem, because that would require admitting he couldn't perform magic—something Al was quite certain James could never bring himself to do.

Today was a good day to return it—James had gone through a day of classes and a full weekend without the ability to manage a single spell, and he'd lost his first Quidditch match. All in all, his brother had had a terrible few days, and Al felt the time was right to end James' suffering.

The only question remaining was _how_ to end it.

He heard Argil puttering around the dormitory, and rolled out of bed to dress for brunch. Al was surprised to see Scor up and about of his own volition, following him into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Morning," he said, turning on a sink.

Scor grunted.

Al snorted around his toothbrush. Scor ranked as a small, blond Neanderthal before eleven a.m. As Al finished washing his face, he caught Scor's eyes in the mirror, reaching up to tug briefly on his lower lids. "Am I good?"

Scor's mouth twitched—quite an expressive accomplishment so early in the day—and nodded.

On their way to the common room, Al pocketed both his own and the hawthorn wand, and met Ana's inquiring glance with a smile.

"Three weeks until Winter Hols!" announced Argil. "Three weeks until Peru and Machu Picchu!"

"Machu _what_?" mumbled Matthias, rubbing his eyes.

"Where are you going during the break?" asked Al, nudging Ana's arm. Across from them, Scor looked up from his vacant contemplation of the sausage tray.

"Mum and Dad and I are going to St. Petersburg, spending Christmas with Gran," she said.

"Your Gran still lives in Russia?" said Al.

Ana shrugged, poking at her eggs. "Her friends are there."

"You were born there, right?"

"Yeah. It's lovely, I'm glad we still get to visit." She gulped her juice. "You—you just going home, then?"

"Yup," he said. "Back to Devon."

"Home for the holidays."

"Yeah." Al stared at his plate, suddenly desperate to change the topic. Scor cleared his throat loudly and unhelpfully. Inspiration struck, however, as the owls streamed into the Great Hall for their daily deliveries. "I decided how I'm giving it back to him."

"Oh?" said Ana, perking up. "How?"

"Through the mail."

Ana gazed up at the birds circling overhead. "So you don't want him to know it was you?"

"He'll know," said Al, shaking his head. "Unless he's _really_ stupid—but you'll see. I'm just gonna hint that it was me."

A nondescript brown owl landed nearby, extending the Sunday edition of the _Daily Prophet_ to Violet. Before it took flight again, Al whistled it over and drew both wands from his pocket, pushing his plate toward the bird to keep it placated. Peering around the Slytherin table, he spotted who he was looking for sitting a few people to the left.

"Erm—Sarah-May?"

She glanced up from her pancakes with a frown. "Yeah?"

"Could I—er—borrow your hair ribbon, please?"

"Borrow?" she repeated. She lifted a hand to her hair, but hesitated. "So I'll get it back?"

That _is_ the definition of the word, Al didn't say. "Yeah—I just need it for a second."

Sarah-May shrugged and pulled at the bow, her blonde hair falling down around her face. "Whatever." She passed him her green and silver Slytherin hair ribbon and turned to her breakfast.

Laying the ribbon flat along the table, Al waved his wand the same way he had in Filch's office a few days ago. "_Geminio_."

An identical ribbon appeared beside the first. Ana raised her eyebrows, impressed.

"Thanks," he told Sarah-May, handing back the original.

As best he could, he tied the Slytherin ribbon around James' wand in a bow, then held it out for the owl. The bird hopped forward, talon scrabbling on the table surface, and snapped up the wand in its beak. Hoping this would work, Al looked the owl in its wide, black eyes and said clearly: "James Potter." He pointed across the Hall, in case that helped.

The owl twitched its head to the side, shuffled to the edge of the table and launched itself into the air, rising to join the others still circling above the students. Al tried not to lose it in the mass of brown and black and white, and saw it descend a moment later over the Gryffindor table.

Al looked back at Ana, satisfied. Over her shoulder, he caught Violet staring at him, mouth agape.

"What?" he said.

Violet shook her head and turned away, though she went on furrowing her brow at the pumpkin juice pitcher.

"What's up with her?" he asked Ana.

"Dunno," she said, eying the Gryffindors across the Hall. "Shouldn't you be freaking out, trying to hide your face or something?"

"He can't do anything here," Al reasoned. "And he's not going to tell on me to the teachers or our parents, because that would break the prank rules."

"Prank _rules_?"

"Pranks stay between the prankers," said Al.

Snor snorted in agreement. "If he goes running to the adults, he's a pansy."

"So—when you say he can't do anything _here_…?"

"Yeah," said Al.

Ana sighed. "And I thought it was over."

He lifted a shoulder. "Sorry."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

A/N: Riddles in this chapter are old Finnish ones.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The final weeks of first semester were rather more peaceful than the first. Umelting Icicles and fairy lights appeared in the main corridors around the beginning of December; pine trees drenched with Everfrost, festooned with baubles and ribbons in House colors, sprung up in the Great Hall soon after. All over the castle arose a general sense of holiday cheer: portraits grinned, rosy-cheeked, from the walls, and the moving staircases seemed to be working _with _the students, rather than against. The nicer professors eased off with the lengthy assignments, and before he knew it, Al was handing in his last bits of homework and packing his duffel for home.

Teaching officially ended on the fifteenth, and the following day most of the student body trundled through the Hogwarts gates in a line of horseless carriages, all headed to Hogsmeade Station.

"Poor Danica," said Ana, pulling up the collar of her cloak. Winter had finally made its presence known in the form of freezing wind and rain, and the air inside their carriage was cold and musty.

"She'll be fine," said Al. He shrugged, nudging a lilting Scor upright. His housemate was usually awake by now, but he suspected Scor had stayed up until the wee hours of the morning the night before, along with Matthias and Paul, at the common room Christmas Party. Al and Argil had nearly had to Summon the three out of bed that morning—neither of them knew any Summoning Spells, but Al had been prepared to look one up, should it have come to that.

"She's the only first year staying behind." Sighing, Ana leaned toward the window, craning her neck to catch one more glimpse of the castle.

"The only _Slytherin_ first year," Al corrected.

"Same difference," she mumbled.

Al glanced at her, but Ana was staring out at the passing grounds. As far as he could tell, she'd been in a sort of funk since talk of winter break began—quieter than usual, and silent in most of their classes. Ana tended to brighten whenever Tam was around, and he and Scor managed to get a laugh out of her now and then, but it seemed the closer they drew to fifteenth Decemeber, the more withdrawn she became.

Al didn't know what was bothering her, and he didn't know quite know how to ask.

"All right?" he tried, for what felt like the hundredth time.

Ana nodded.

"Dunno how I'll make it home from Kings Cross," he said, as though she had asked. "James and I in the backseat—I hope they brought Lily, so she can sit in the middle."

Ana looked at him, her brow furrowed. "Backseat—of a car?"

"Oh—yeah," said Al, a bit thrown. "My dad has one he sometimes drives. It's hideous—old and brown, really loud—" He forced a laugh, aware he was babbling. "Still has a gas engine."

Ana blinked. "I've—never been in a car before."

"They're—erm, not that great," said Al. "Bumpy." He glanced down, absently pushed Scor upright again. When he risked a look back at Ana, she was staring at him, chagrinned.

"Sorry," she said.

"What? No—" He shook his head. "It's just—what's wrong?"

In the window behind Ana, Hogsmeade Station was growing larger in the morning mist, the Express shining red on the tracks alongside.

"I dunno." She played with a braid, followed his gaze outside to the gray. "Something Frank said."

"Frank," repeated Al. "Frank Nott? What'd he say?"

Ana seemed hesitant to explain. "It was at the Quidditch party. After you'd gone back to your dorm, he was talking about—names."

"What?"

Ana waved a hand in the air. "It's nothing."

"But—"

"Al." She dropped the braid, and he closed his mouth. "We're at the Station—you better wake him. I'm fine, all right?"

"Yeah, all right." Al turned to Scor and made to shake his shoulder. "Scor—"

His eyes sprang open. "Yeah?"

"Oh." Al lowered his hand. "I thought you were—"

"Nah," he said, brushing hair out of his eyes. "Just didn't want to ruin the sharing. Don't worry though—I would've saved you if it got _too_ awkward. Fallen out of my seat, or something."

Al laughed as Ana threw an obligatory glare their way. "Thanks, you're a pal."

"Yeah," said Scor, gritting as he stretched. "I am."

On the train, they shared a compartment with Matthias, Paul, Abbey and Sarah-May—Argil had left earlier that day to meet his parents in Hogsmeade. Ana settled near the window, Al beside her, so that Scor occupied more or less the center of the row. This suited Scor just fine; by the time the Express lurched from the platform he'd gained uncontested rein of the conversation, effectively banishing silence for the duration of the journey.

About an hour later, Ana was gazing at the sloping hills of green easing past the window, and Scor was distracting Matthias from their game of Exploding Snap by loudly recounting his first trip to Minos' Maze, the largest magical zoo in the world. Al had heard this story before—it began with Scor wandering off while his father was engrossed in the Swedish Short-Snout exhibit, and ended with a Maze-wide Security detail finding him hours later by the Jarvey enclosure, trading insults with the weasel-like creatures.

Checking to make sure Ana was still lost in the downs, Al reached into his duffel and withdrew _Sláine's Quaich_, a book he'd borrowed from the library the day before. He flipped to the second chapter, drawing up his legs to rest the novel against his knees, and unfolded the letter that had been marking his page.

_Dear Al,_

_One more week! I'm counting down until you and James are stampeding around the house again—Lily does her best to make a racket, but it's still too quiet without you boys around. And don't forget to bring along your tests and essays and things! Dad and I can't wait to see the good grades you've been hinting at. We're still trying to puzzle where you got these brains of yours… He thinks the smarts are from his side, but I remember more than one of my brothers being quite bookish at school._

_I'm sorry your friend Argil will be traveling over the holidays—I was hoping to have a chance to meet him. Maybe in the spring?_

_We'll be waiting for you on the platform. And prepare yourself, dear: Dad has promised to let me drive home!_

_All my love,_

_Mum_

He'd read it four times, now. Letters from Mum were like having a conversation you could carry in your pocket; Al heard her voice so clearly in her writing, it was as though she were there with him. He stored all of his letters from home in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, but this most recent one he'd brought with him, lest he forget the pressing issues it raised: the potential collision of friends and family on platform 9 ¾, and surviving the trip to Honiton—which, even with the car's magical improvements, would take at least three hours.

When the snackwitch stopped by in the early afternoon, Ana was fast asleep, her head pillowed on her folded cloak, and Al was nearing the end of chapter three in his book. He bought Ana a pumpkin muffin, figuring she'd be hungry when she woke, and settled into chapter four, picking idly at his Cauldron Cake.

"An Abraxan foal beats a flying carpet!" exclaimed Scor, drawing Al's attention. "Besides, those are illegal—aren't they?"

It seemed Scor, Sarah-May and Abbey had begun a competition of sorts—listing past Christmas gifts from either their parents or grandparents, vying for the claim of most extravagant.

"In Britain, they are," said Abbey. She eyed Sarah-May, who was struggling to contain a smug smile, dying for Abbey's next question: "Why would they get you something you can't use?"

"Well," said Sarah-May. "They told me it was the best way to get around the island."

"The _island_?" repeated Scor.

"_My_ island," she corrected.

Abbey was laughing. "You never said you had an island! Where is it?"

"In my pocket," said Sarah-May, even as she grinned. "No—it's just a small thing in the Java Sea."

Scor was shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't beat an island."

Across the compartment, Matthias wore a similar expression, peering at the three as though waiting for the punch line. Paul was oblivious, flipping through their shared copy of _Quidditch Quarterly_ as he debated the merits of the Nebula X broom series over the remodeled Nimbus Classic.

Sensing Al's stare, Matthias glanced up. Al darted his gaze to Scor, Sarah-May and Abbey, then back to Matthias, and deliberately rolled his eyes. Matthias chuckled and nodded his agreement.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

It was late afternoon, long dark, when the Hogwarts Express lurched and sighed to a stop at King's Cross Station. Al could make out a dense crowd on the platform as he shook Ana awake—she's nodded off again after eating her muffin top an hour earlier. Donning their cloaks, bags slung over shoulders, they joined the throng of students jostling for the exit outside their compartment.

Matthias was the first to spot his mother—a dark-haired witch from whom he had clearly inherited his wide build. Paul slipped away a moment later with barely a word of farewell, though Al saw him make his way alone to the disguised station entrance. Soon, only Al, Ana and Scor remained, clustered together as they scanned the surrounding crowd.

"There's my mother," said Scor.

Al followed his line of sight to a narrow, honey blonde woman, her eyes placidly roving the platform.

Scor hefted his duffel and shot them each a grin. "Hope you don't mind me owling you—I'll be bored out of my skull until her side come for Christmas. Nothing but house elves and rain and a bit of France, if Father has his way."

"Er—yeah," said Al. "I mean, no—I don't mind…"

But Scor was already hurrying away, waving an arm to his smiling mother. He consented to be hugged and have his hair ruffled, all the while talking at top speed.

"Al," said Ana, tugging on his sleeve. "I think—isn't that your dad?"

He turned and, sure enough, there were his parents standing by a far pillar, where the crowd was beginning to clear. They had already found James—Mum had just released him from a hug and Dad was clapping him on the back.

Al struggled to quell a sudden, irrational resentment—his parent hadn't _failed_ to find him, no more than they'd purposely found his brother first. He was being stupid. He should be wishing Ana a happy holiday and walking towards his family.

"Al?" Ana was staring at him with concern.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "Maybe I should—do you want me to… Erm, wait with you? Until—"

What was he saying? If he stalled with Ana, his family would _see_ him with Ana, which would lead to questions, or—Merlin forbid—introductions. Somehow, he doubted the best way to begin the holiday was a nice-to-meet-you between the Potters and the Dolohovs.

"There you are!" a familiar voice shrieked in his ear.

Al looked down at the freckled, gap-toothed face of his sister and forced a smile. "Lily!"

"I promised I wouldn't get lost, so Dad let me come find you—but where have you _been_? I've been all over and up and down _twice_! Come on, I'm supposed to bring you back."

She beamed at Ana, opening her mouth to say hello, but Al grabbed her arm. "Thanks, Lil—why don't you lead the way." He glanced quickly at Ana, who was smirking at Lily's retreating back, bemused. "You'll be okay? Do you see your parents?"

Ana nodded, jerking her head toward the front of the train. "Yeah, I think I see my dad."

Al felt his face twitch and hid it with a grin. "All right," he said, backing away. "Happy Hols—I'll write you!"

A second later, Ana was obscured in the mill of people. Al quickened his step to catch up with Lily, ignoring a slight twinge of guilt. As he approached his parents, he willed one of them to look up, beckon him with a smile like Scor's mother had done, but an apparent tear in James' duffel held their attention for the moment. Al reached them unnoticed, drawing to a stop beside his sister, who was staring at them impatiently, hands on her hips.

"Hel_lo_," she announced. "I _found_ him!"

His mum spun around, dropping the end of the bag she'd been holding while Dad mended the rip. Al barely heard James' indignant cry—"_Merlin_ Mum, my broom's in there!"—before his head was squashed against his mother's stomach, enveloped in her arms.

"Hi, Mum," he said, voice muffled in her robe.

She stepped back, hands slipping to his shoulders, and held him at a distance, eyes roving up and down as though checking for damage.

"Al, sweetheart—" She broke off, blinking alarmingly bright eyes. "Sorry," she said, laughing at herself. By way of explanation: "Missed you."

"We _all_ missed you," said his father, bending down for a hug. Al was secretly glad he wasn't yet emitting the vibes that kept Dad from embracing James. "Well, except for Lily—she's been enjoying open access to your shelves."

"Lily!" exclaimed Al, horrified.

"I put everything back!"

His mum sent her husband an exasperated look as she began ushering them toward the exit. "They're not back five minutes, and you're already stirring up trouble."

Al glanced at James with a gulp. His brother had yet to meet his eyes, though it was too soon to tell if that was deliberate. Lily, meanwhile, launched into a detailed narration of everything she'd been up to since September—losing teeth and tormenting her and Hugo's tutor, for the most part—pausing only when they were within sight of the car to shout: "I call middle seat!"

Thank Merlin, thought Al.

When the bags were stowed and they had all piled into the ancient brown sedan, Dad shifted nervously in the passenger seat, reaching for the safety belt.

"Er—everyone's buckled up, yeah?" He met his wife's glare with feigned innocence. "What? It's the law!"

"Keeping talking," she advised, turning her key in the ignition. The car roared to life, the sound conspicuous in what Al reckoned was a lot full of hybrids and electrics.

The Dursleys had an electric car—it was silver, and so quiet that Aunt Dena sometimes couldn't remember if she'd started the engine or not. Her car didn't have a key—just a rectangular piece of plastic she called her "magic wand" that allowed the car to start when she pushed a button. Al didn't know much about Muggle automobiles, but he reckoned a monkey could tell that the Dursley's car was much nicer than the Potter's. The Potter's car, for one, didn't talk to them—Aunt Dena's told her where to go, what conditions the roads were in, and the current temperature outdoors.

As Mum peeled out of the parking lot and onto the traffic-clogged streets, Dad's hand found it's way to the small handle bolted to the ceiling above his head. Al had no idea what purpose the handles were supposed to serve—he had one above his seat as well, though he was too short to reach it comfortably—unless they really were only there for passengers to grab in times of fright.

Al counted five car horns blared in their direction on their way out of the city. Lily's chatter continued unabated, despite minimal audience response: James was flipping through the same issue of _Quidditch Quarterly_ as Al's housemates; Mum and Dad were concentrating on the road. Being friends with Scor, Al had simply fine-tuned the ability to block out such noise.

His father visibly relaxed once they made it to the M3, dropping his hand from the Panic Handle and settling back in his seat.

"Always an adventure," he said.

"It's sad," Mum replied. "How low your standards for adventure have sunk."

Dad tilted his head back with a sigh and grinned when he caught Al watching. "Not so sad."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

They stopped for sandwiches in Andover around seven, which was when his mother asked the question he'd been secretly dreading all day. He'd known it was coming the moment they opted for sit in rather than take away.

"You've been awfully quiet, Al," said Mum, taking a bite of her cheddar and apple chutney on poppyseed bread. When he failed to respond, she swallowed and tried again. "Tell us more about your semester. You were so cryptic in your letters."

Al sucked on his Strawberry Coke and wondered what "cryptic" meant. Did it have to do with tombs, where dead people were buried? He didn't see how she could've gotten that impression—he hadn't mentioned death once in his owls home.

Or it could have to do with avoiding straight answers, like he was doing now.

"It was—fun," he said, playing with his crusts. Mum nodded, encouraging. "Everyone in my year's great and I have two classes with Rose, so I get to see her a lot."

"Yes, I remember you writing that," she said. "Astronomy and Defense."

"Yeah." He chewed the inside of his lip, wondering what else he could tell them that he hadn't already written about. Scouring his brain for safe topics, only the touchy subjects sprang to mind: Flying Lessons, wand duping, Quidditch—

"Getting along with your housemates?" asked Dad.

"We all get along fine," said Al, a bit annoyed at the question.

"Well, tell us about them," suggested Mum.

"He can't, Mum—don't you get it?" said James, in the joking tone he adopted whenever adults were around. "He's got no friends!"

"James," said Dad, in the stern tone he adopted whenever he disliked James' jokes. "That's not true—Al's made loads of friends."

All eyes turned to Al, waiting for him to support this claim.

"I—yeah." In the embarrassed pause that followed, the only sound was the break of Lily's crisps as she crushed them on her plate.

"Lily, dear, stop making a mess," chided Mum.

"Who was that girl?" asked Lily, wiping her greasy fingers on her shirt. "The one you were with by the train."

Al opened his mouth, planning to identify Ana as a housemate and maybe start talking about Argil, but James piped in yet again.

"O-oh!" he sang. "Alie's got a _girlfriend_." He snickered into his sandwich while Lily keeled over in a fit of giggles.

Al knew better than to protest, opting instead to roll his eyes, but the automatic blush he felt creeping up his neck wasn't helping his cause. Mum and Dad, at least, seemed more sympathetic than amused. Glancing at his brother, their eyes met for the first time in weeks and Al barely suppressed a flinch.

"Look at him turning red!" crowed James.

"Now, stop teasing, you two." Mum smiled at Al understandingly. "She a friend of yours?"

"Housemate," he said with a shrug, resolving to send Ana a really great Christmas present to make up for it. Until then, he'd just have to live with feeling like a jerk. He pushed away his plate, suddenly exhausted. "I'm done."

Back on the road, the soda managed to keep him conscious for half an hour before the lull of the car eased him to sleep. He awoke early the next morning to find himself snug in his own bed, in his own room, at the Den.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

In many ways, the week leading up to Christmas proceeded as usual. It was one of the few times of the year when the Potters saw nothing of Aunt Hermione, Uncle Ron, Rose and Hugo—they spent the week in Australia visiting Aunt Hermione's parents, traveling back to the UK in time for Christmas Day supper with Ron's side of the family. With their absence, it was by default a time for Potter togetherness—outings to restaurants and shopping for gifts in Diagon Alley, morning broom flights with Mum or Dad, afternoons spent reading or playing games with a sibling.

This winter, that sibling was Lily. It wasn't always possible to avoid James, but Al did the best he could and reckoned he was much happier for it. Mostly, he could be found curled up in his favorite armchair with a book. _Sláine's Quaich_ was a quick read—he finished it his first day home—and surprisingly good.

His second morning back, a toucan landed on the porch railing outside the kitchen window, heralded by Lily's scream of terror when the bird's enormous bill swung into sight beyond the glass.

"It's for Al," Dad said, on detaching the scroll tied to its leg.

Al laughed, knowing immediately whom it was from. How _any_ bird had made it halfway around the world in two days, he had no idea—but here was proof, at least, that he did have one friend.

Unrolling the letter, he couldn't suppress a snort. Argil's message was comically brief.

_Al:_

_We met a Peruvian postman who swore these things could do Same Day Delivery, Anywhere In The World. Father thought it'd be fun to test it. If the bird shows up a day later than 17__th__ December, we want a refund! Write back to let us know, will you?_

_Happy Holidays,_

_Argil Blotts_

"Is it the seventeenth?" asked Al, peering round at the calendar on the wall.

"Yep," said Dad.

"Wow," he said. The toucan was shifting left and right along the windowsill, bobbing its bill to a nonexistent beat. At Dad and Lily's curious stares, he explained the bird's origin.

"Well, let the poor thing rest before sending it back, eh?" said Dad, going back to his newspaper.

"Is it—do you think it bites?" said Lily, approaching the window.

"Poke it and find out," said Al lightly. Behind his paper, Dad stifled a chuckle.

"_You_ poke it," said Lily.

"We'll have James poke it when he and Mum get back from flying," decided Dad.

Later, in his room, Al sat at his desk staring down at a tauntingly blank piece of parchment. He'd managed one word in the past five minutes:

_Scor_

A moment later, he added "Dear."

_Dear Scor_

The problem, it occurred to him, was that he had nothing to write about. In the few days since Scor had last seen him, he'd read a book and hung out with his family in their house in the middle of nowhere. Al wasn't writing to Scor because he wanted to or particularly needed to—he was writing so that Scor wouldn't be the one to write first.

It was stupid, he knew, but the thought had been troubling him even since the toucan arrived in his kitchen that morning: when Scor wrote to him, as he'd implied he would, his letter would arrive in a similar manner—by owl, probably in front of Al's family. Since it was unlikely the Malfoys utilized toucans, he wouldn't be able to pass off the letter as coming from Argil; if he didn't say who it was from, that would pique his family's interests even more; and if he lied outright, chances were it would come back to cause him grief, or at the very least necessitate more lies.

Al didn't know this from personal experience, per say—he'd more gleaned it from the experiences of others.

So, he was writing to Scor. Usually, his friend could be counted on for taking Al's lead, picking up on his cues—and it didn't really _matter_ what Al said in the letter. It was all in the sign off:

_Dear Scor,_

_How's your skull?_

—_Asp_

There. It was almost guaranteed that Scor would follow suit, and had the added bonus that it would make him laugh.

Filibert was napping in the backyard broomshed that also served as an owlery for the family birds. As he prodded her awake, he thought perhaps he should bring the toucan there for the night—Mum definitely wouldn't like it in the house.

"Good girl," he said when she accepted the scroll. "Take that to Scorpius Malfoy for me?"

Filibert ruffled her feathers and consented to be carried outside, taking flight just before Al spotted his mother and James descending from the cloudy sky.

"Morning, dear," said Mum.

James landed beside her and wordlessly shouldered his broom, heading for the shed.

Mum shielded her eyes to find Filibert against the grey. "Where's Filly off to?"

"A friend's," said Al.

"Oh? Not Argil?"

"No," he said.

Mum arched her brow, inquiring.

"His name's—Slim," he said, hoping he didn't sound as daft as he thought.

"Odd name," said Mum.

"Odder than Argiletum?"

Mum laughed. "Point."


End file.
